Any Way You Want Me
by LyingMonsters
Summary: Berwald Oxenstierna's life is routine as long as he keeps out of the way of the Stasi. When his night job at a club leads him to meeting the entrancing dancer, Tino Väinämöinen, everything will change. Inspired by the Elvis Presley song of the same name. 1961 Berlin AU.
1. Chapter 1

Berwald's life was routine. He would wake every morning with the groaning motors of the printing presses when the sky was blushing pale blue and cut away the pieces of life in the newspaper that the Stasi demanded he did. Sometimes he wondered why he did it. He didn't fear the Stasi. There was nothing to fear from them if you had nobody to care for. However, it was easier to replace the story of the artists painting their names over the abandoned houses than to argue. It was always easier to entertain the petty delusions of those who were on power trips than to fight them.

Nothing could be gained by fighting directly. Berwald did what he could-transferring money, buying supplies for a group of artists, keeping the few West books and records that hadn't been seized safe. What was easy was not right, and he knew, but right and wrong clashing made war. Nobody was ready for another war.

If Berwald was honest with himself, the thought of war was the only thing that scared him. This city seemed like a spark could set it ablaze, and he would not be the reason the world began to burn again.

That was what he told himself, but he couldn't stand the grey drain of complacency some days. The West was full of endless vitality, and it drew him. Crossing was only a short walk across the square, and it seemed too easy. So easy, that he began to cross every night.

Summer was in full, exultant swing, and the roar of the streets echoed in the distance. There was a place tucked up behind the glittering avenues that never slept, strung with gauzy veils and beads and filled with people who's skin shone pale in the black light. The owner paid Berwald to stand by the dancers and make sure nobody touched. It was good money in West marks, and an easy job most days.

Tonight, when he arrived, the owner-a Turk with a mask and a grin-pushed a new outfit into his hands. It looked suspiciously like the Red Army uniforms, and Berwald felt a wave of revulsion. The man shrugged at him.

'It's not real. Or if it is, it sure was cheap. It's for the intimidation. Some of our patrons have started getting handsy. I thought this would scare them off. Not that you need the help.' He slapped Berwald on the shoulder, but his eyes were serious. 'You've got a duty here. Keep them safe.'

Berwald put the uniform on and stood in front of the mirror. It made him look crueler. Nonetheless, he had his job, and he wanted to keep the performers safe. He turned away from the mirror, folded his familiar blue coat and placed it on his shelf, and left without turning back.

Right before he entered the buzzing crowd on the dance floor, someone brushed past him. Berwald only caught a glimpse of a tight black tank top and shorts and a pair of soft purple eyes before they were gone into the same room he'd exited. He felt strangely disoriented, his thoughts muddied before he remembered. He needed to get to the stage.

The crowd parted for him. They did usually, but today, people eyed his uniform and shied back. Berwald didn't mind so much right now. He sat back and gazed out at the technicolour lights flashing. He didn't need to think about right or wrong or the Stasi now.

The first performers were coming up now. Berwald glanced over, mind already drifting. He hoped the girl who sang the West songs was here tonight. She often opened the show, and she had a sweet, lilting voice. He hoped that the older brother she talked about hadn't found out and stopped her from coming.

He stopped cold, and hot, and electric. Those purple eyes were gazing back at him, the lights twinkling off the paint applied around them with a light hand. Berwald's gaze moved down to the knob at their neck that jumped when he swallowed, and Berwald's throat went dry.

For a second, he was afraid the crowd would jeer. There was silence, and then their humming built into a joyful roar that reverberated through the walls.

Of course, it was Berlin.

The man gave him a small smile, almost involuntarily, before he appeared to think better and looked away to the rest of his group. He took the hand of a smaller man, almost a boy, who had the same pale eyes and hair, and had accented his outfit with a bandanna around his neck patterned with puffins.

Their dance was thrumming and mesmerizing and he couldn't look away. The crowd was entranced, holding their breath as people swung and dipped each other acrobatically. Berwald found himself staring and waiting with bated breath along with everyone else as the first dancer, with the beautiful purple eyes, was raised on his troop's hands like an angel ready for flight and flipped backwards, body curving in slow motion, and landed, hands spread out, smiling so brightly he outshone the strobe lights. The stage went dark.

The crowd was silent for a single second before they screamed and clamoured for more. Berwald stood up and applauded along with them, taken aback by the strength of his own response, but sure of it all the same.

The rest of the night was the same as usual, and drab after the explosion the first performers had caused. Berwald was still stuck in imagining the dancer. None of the troop appeared again, even to mingle with the others on the floor and drink as was the custom. At the end of the night, they still hadn't appeared, and feeling oddly disappointed, Berwald went back to change out of the fake uniform.

It was there, in front of the change room, that he met the dancer again. He was waiting by the door, brows furrowed, with the rest of his troop. They were all gathered around the boy with the puffin bandanna.

'Emil, we can just put concealer on it, I know Feliks can lend you some-'

'Got it, like, right here!' someone with long blond hair called, briefly fishing in their pockets before they waved a compact. They expertly dabbed it onto the boy's face, under his eyes, and at a slight bruise on his jaw.

'Lukas won't even notice,' the first soothed again. 'You did wonderfully, don't worry, it's only our first performance. They loved you.'

Berwald coughed, and they all jumped. The one with the concealer stepped in front.

'What are Reds doing in this place?' they asked derisively, green eyes skipping over his olive coat.

''M not a Red,' Berwald glanced away. How to explain that he hated the armies as much as any artist?

'Then, like, what _are_ you?'

''M an editor. This is m' night job.' Berwald couldn't meet the first dancer's eyes any longer. 'Uniform's a fake. The owner said I should put 't on to scare people off.'

'Well, obviously,' the one with blond hair said, picking at his sleeve. 'It's like, not even padded right. This is totally fake. But good imitation. And he's got a scary enough look for it.' They nodded, as if declaring their verdict, and stepped back.

The one with purple eyes took their place, and Berwald's chest went tight. He was even more beautiful up close, away from the harsh neon lights. His hair was curled faintly. Angelically.

'You're not a soldier?' he asked, and Berwald saw the tense of his rounded shoulders, the shift of his weight. There was muscle underneath his soft skin. Berwald focused on him, drawing away from the world.

'Swear 'm not.'

He relaxed, and held out his hand. After an moment of hesitation, Berwald shook. He tilted his head to meet his gaze, and squeezed his hand. 'I'm glad. My name is Tino Väinämöinen.'

'Berwald Oxenstierna.'

'Did you like the performance, Berwald?' Tino asked. His mouth seemed naturally to tip into a smile, and Berwald never wanted to stop watching.

''T was good,' he said, and coughed. 'Best we've ever had here.'

'We've been practicing for a long time.' Tino smiled again, before he seemed to shake himself out of his thoughts and turned to his troop. They were all staring at him with expressions Berwald couldn't quite understand. Tino's ears were pink, and he clapped his hands. 'That was really good. We can begin our new routine tomorrow, the usual place.'

'Where are you going?' the dancer who was still examining the edge of Berwald's coat asked.

'I'm going to have a drink before I go to bed,' Tino said, ushering them out. When they were all gone, they were alone. Tino was still in his tight tank top.

'Would you like to join me?' Tino asked, and Berwald nearly stammered out all his thoughts-Tino, asking him?

'Only 'f I pay,' he finally said, pulling out his wallet. His face felt hot. He held up a hand to silence Tino's protest and tried to _breathe_-Tino was looking at him with those gorgeous eyes and he couldn't think right. 'I'll see y' on the floor.'

Berwald ducked into the room and took off the fake uniform and put on his familiar coat. The man in the mirror was familiar again, even if his hands were shaking and his eyes were wider. He took a deep breath before joining Tino on the floor. Painted red and green and blue by the swirling lights, he was enchanting.

'You look good in that coat,' Tino said. Berwald didn't know how or what to say, but Tino thankfully led him to sit down at the bar.

'All this reminds me a bit of the northern lights. The colours and the dark and the happiness,' Tino admitted, and giggled self-consciously. Berwald just stared. His smile curled up and his eyes crinkled around the corners. 'Have you ever seen the auroras?'

'A lon' time ago.' But here, with Tino close and the strobes slower, Berwald could imagine every streak of light clearly. 'Back in Sweden.'

'I'm from Finland!' Tino swirled his drink and unwrapped a candy. Berwald didn't know where he'd gotten it. '_Revontulet_. That's how you say 'northern lights' in Finnish.'

''N Swedish, you could say it..._Norrsken_.'

'_Norrsken_,' Tino repeated. 'I miss the auroras. I lived in a tiny town, where the winter lasted almost all year and when the sky lit up green and pink you could almost see all night.'

Berwald remembered everything so clearly. The sky alive with light and colour and the snow catching in his eyelashes and the horizon blue for miles.

'I like it here, don't get me wrong,' Tino said. 'It's just that-it's _loud_ here. And bright, and fast, because of the people. This city never seems to sleep. Wanting always seems to happen in cities with people like this.'

'What abou' if there's people like us?' Berwald asked. Tino's eyebrows flew up, and he was just as surprised.

'Well...change happens with us. Art happens. You said you're an editor, and I'm a dancer.' Tino smiled and rubbed the back of his neck. 'People don't always like that I'm a dancer. Even here, you're expected to be a certain way, and if you're not...people get hurt.'

'I don' mind.'

Tino peered up at him over the rim of his glass, toying with his sweets wrappers. His voice was soft and his eyes were wide and shining. 'Really?'

Berwald forced himself to look away and take a sip of his beer. He couldn't reveal his secrets to people, even if they had beautiful eyes and soft hair. ''M an editor. People think I should be a soldier.'

Tino was quiet for a moment longer than normal before he nodded and took a drink.

'Yeah,' he said, sounding subdued. Berwald wanted to take back his foolish words, to tell him what he wanted, but it could be a mistake. Tino could be a Stasi spy, or if he wasn't, another person could be watching for him to show weakness.

He would not tell Tino the truth to keep them both safe, even if his heart had to be bound in chains for it.

'It's getting late,' he said, standing up. Tino followed a moment later. 'Are y' sure about walking home alon'?'

'I'll be fine, Berwald,' Tino assured him, and Berwald knew he would be, because there was steel just underneath the surface and it thrilled him. But he didn't want to let Tino go so soon.

Maybe Tino saw it in his eyes, because he held out his hand and Berwald took it, feeling the heat of his skin through the leather glove.

'I can walk you home,' he joked. Berwald shook his head.

'I live in the East.' He jerked his head, feeling ashamed of it in some way, but Tino didn't mind.

'I'll let you walk me home, then.'

Tino hummed as they walked, hands fluttering through the motions of his dance. When he caught Berwald's eye, he grinned and began to sing.

'I'll be as strong as a mountain or weak as a willow tree. Any way you want me, well, that's how I will be…'

His singing voice was sweet and clear. Berwald hadn't heard the lyrics clearly in the pounding bassline of the club, and hadn't cared because the music hadn't seemed like his type, but here, among the streetlights and the blue glow of evening, with this dancer-he was starting to like it, and he was starting to love Tino.

His eyes were lovely and the way his face opened up when he spoke about his dancing made Berwald want to see more of it. To do this would be dangerous, but he was lost. When they stopped at the autobahn idling, he touched his hand.

'Tino,' Berwald interrupted. His head was spinning. 'C'n-can I see you tomorr'w?'

'Of course,' Tino said, sounding surprised. 'Well, not performing, but I'll be back at the club. And I'll pay.'

His words were now lost, and all he could do was nod as Tino giggled, rippled his fingers in a wave, and got on.

Berwald turned around and began the long walk to the East. The streetlights gleamed along the roads in a parody of the auroras.

Change; the exact opposite of his routine life. Tino brought change like the northern winds, wonderful and longing and deadly. Tino, who already felt like home, was so dangerous. Berwald's life had been based around not having anyone else to care for, but now all that had changed.

**0o0o0o**

**_In your hands my heart is clay,  
To take and hold as you may.  
I'm what you make me, you've only to take me,  
And in your arms I will stay._**

**_-Any Way You Want Me_**

**_:: Realizing chance and luck_**


	2. Chapter 2

Mathias woke him the next day. Berwald lay in his bed, blinking up at the ceiling. His glasses were still skewed across his face, and his mouth was fuzzy. He must have fallen asleep. His memories of Tino seemed to dance and twirl before him.

'Open up!' Mathias shouted again, hammering on the door. 'Come on, I've got your cigs.'

Berwald finally hauled himself up, wiped off his glasses, and went downstairs. He'd told Mathias countless times not to shout. The Stasi didn't need their job of listening to be made easy.

He opened the door and Mathias stood there, rocking back and forth on his heels.

'Took ya long enough,' he said in greeting, slapping a few packages of cigarettes into his palm. He raised an eyebrow expectantly. 'These things are getting harder and harder to get, you know. Gilbert's stash ran out a week ago. So, how have things been?' His tone was obvious.

'C'me in,' Berwald said reluctantly, stepping back. Mathias immediately sprawled across Berwald's favourite couch. Berwald tucked the cigarettes away and went off to fetch the radio transmissions he'd been ordered to cut, but hadn't destroyed yet. He didn't even look at them nowadays. There were too many killings.

It surprised him most days that Mathias was a resistance fighter. He was brave to foolhardiness, and stubborn as a mule, but he was _loud_ about everything he did. How he'd never been properly caught astonished Berwald nearly every time.

He handed over the transmissions. Mathias eagerly flipped through them, but then his cheerful grin froze into shock. He sat up.

'Beilschmidt's dead,' he said.

'What?' Berwald took the papers back, scanning the pages. He tried not to get involved with the resistance-it was for madmen-but everyone knew Gilbert. He couldn't believe he'd missed it. 'Where?'

'Group of wanted criminals near the Gate...neutralized, all captured. Those were our men. He's dead.'

'Captured,' Berwald corrected, but they both knew what capture really meant. Mathias sat back, face white, eyes wide and blank. He blinked, trying to force a smile.

'How about a drink? For-for his memory.' His smile broke.

Berwald silently went to go pour two glasses of whiskey. Mathias accepted, raising his in a toast. Berwald followed, for a moment not caring about if the walls could hear.

'To the most fearless bastard to set foot on this world,' he said, and threw back his glass. He closed his eyes and leaned against the couch. 'Godspeed, fuck it. I hope when the Stasi kill him it's painless. Hell, I still can't believe he's gone.'

They sat, reminiscing, Mathias' strained breathing the only noise.

'I'll...I'll have to tell everyone else,' he said finally, standing up. 'I never thought I'd have to say the words. He's the kind of person who is so _much_ you think they can never die.'

For a moment, the image of Tino flashed before his eyes. Berwald nodded, understanding, even if Tino was a world away from the pale eagle. Mathias didn't seem to notice him again until he'd almost left, when he held out the papers and a neatly packaged bundle of cash.

'Good doing business with you,' he said subduedly, his pain evident. Berwald shook his head.

'Keep it. F'r today.' He hesitated, and reached out to grasp his shoulder. 'Drink to his memory t'night.'

Relief showed on his face for a moment before Mathias managed a small smile and left, his bright colours fading into the shadows as he shrugged his dark blue, familiar, paint-stained coat up to his ears, wrapping up his pain in his own armor. Berwald didn't watch him go. He sat down and poured himself one more glass of whiskey. This was all so dangerous, and it was sobering to realize that with one wrong step, it all fell down. Gilbert Beilschmidt, dead. Who was left after that?

_Tino_.

He dragged his hand over his face, letting out a deep breath. Tino was at stake here. He would have to separate this danger from his everyday life. He didn't want to lie, but safety was strange here. His safety was in those purple eyes.

0o0o0o

Berwald was stiff and irritated as usual after many long hours of editing newspaper reports. Even worse, he'd gotten in a new batch of transmissions when he was about to close up shop and even though he'd rushed through them, he was now late. It felt like a breath of fresh air to run out towards the West, towards Tino. Even better was that he had tonight off at the club.

He got inside, staring into the chaotic display of sound and neon violet lights, his heart sinking as he saw no sign of Tino. He wasn't at the bar, and the pulsing, thriving dance floor was too confusing to look for one person in, even if that person shone. He was about to go over and sit down at the bar to hope that Tino would see and forgive him when Lili, the sweet young singer who opened the shows, appeared at his side.

'Hello, Berwald,' she said, dipping her head politely. 'I noticed you weren't here as early tonight.'

'W'rk ran late,' Berwald said. She laughed, and Berwald felt his spirits lift slightly. Lili had befriended him after he had warned off a few overbold drunkards months back, and she was like a little sister to him now. Given, she already had an older brother, who knew nothing about her night life.

'Someone wants to see you,' she said, nodding over to the middle of the dance floor, where the dance troop was putting on their own show. Berwald felt his heart jump. 'Tino told me you were coming and to tell you where he is.'

'Thank you,' Berwald said honestly, and Lili smiled and left to go dance with a woman with long, chocolate brown hair and sparkling green eyes.

Berwald pushed through the crowd, automatically checking if the guards were in place by the stage before he found Tino. A space had opened up around them as the troop moved, and even the guards were offhandedly watching. Feliks, the blond one, was twirling, their skirt fanned out, laughing and swinging between partners. Tino was in the middle, beautiful, and Berwald watched him twist and sway and spin until his eyes snapped open and he stepped forward to take Berwald's hands, all an elegant motion.

'I thought you'd forgotten me,' he said, gentle teasing evident in his tone. Berwald shook his head.

'I could nev'r forget you.'

Tino's smile widened in surprise and his eyes glimmered with a soft, gentle love. Berwald had never been the type for romantics, but he wanted to do ridiculous things that didn't seem so ridiculous with those eyes on his, like kneel and kiss Tino's hand to pledge. Instead, Berwald took his hand, waiting for a signal, heart caught in his throat. Tino's fingers wound through his and held, and they shone. As if by silent agreement, they started towards the bar.

Feliks had worked the crowd into a cheer behind them, and they both looked back. Berwald saw one of the guards he knew, the Cuban who he'd shared ice cream with, look at Tino and wink at him. Berwald quickly turned back around. Thankfully, Tino hadn't noticed. They settled with their drinks, which Tino insisted on buying, and Berwald relaxed for the first time since the morning.

'The girl told you where I was?' Tino confirmed. 'She's a wonderful singer. What did they call her onstage?'

'_Vogel_. Bird. But her real n'me is Lili.' The reminder of birds made him think of Gilbert, and he shifted uneasily. Tino noticed.

'What's wrong?'

'I heard s'me criminals were caught by the Gate,' Berwald said carefully, not knowing how to phrase his warning. Tino's brows furrowed.

'I didn't read about that in the newspapers.'

'I know som'one who was there,' he lied quickly.

The loud music and the sound of the people would drown out his voice to anyone listening. Nobody would ever know what he said unless Tino was a spy, and Berwald didn't-couldn't- believe he was. 'Tino...a man I kn'w died, 'n his life wasn't told like it truly was. If some types of people sh'w who they are...the s'me thing can happen.'

Their deaths explained as accidents and their lives edited from history. Berwald hated the idea, but he had to warn Tino about the price of what they might be.

Tino was quiet for a long moment. Berwald didn't feel like he could breathe. He didn't know why he'd told Tino so much, but it was maybe because he was scared of how much of their relationship could be built on false safety. Their foundation was this love, caught between them in a world that would despise them, but there was so much more danger to come. Maybe it was because he wanted to know what Tino would think of breaking the rules that both lured and scared him.

'I understand,' Tino said finally, and smiled. 'I do, Berwald. About the danger that could come, I _understand_. It's okay.'

Weight lifted off his chest, leaving him light as a bird and better than he'd felt in weeks. Tino didn't understand everything yet, but that could wait. Everything could wait, because this was all he needed. If he was willing, Berwald would break the rules for him.

Later on, Berwald didn't realize he was so drunk. He'd been focused on Tino's eyes and the knowledge that he was willing to brave danger, but now the world was spinning and he wanted to sleep. Tino tugged on his arm and he rose, fascinated by how his eyes always stayed bright in the changing colours. Tino was flushed pink and _gorgeous_.

'Should we go home?' he asked. Berwald nodded, and even though the air felt good on his face, the warm weight of Tino against his side made his thoughts nothing but warmth and happiness, so he was on autopilot all the way home.

By the time he realized they were in the East and standing before his publishing house, Tino was nearly asleep against his arm. Berwald didn't have much time to think. He gently ushered him inside and put him to bed, taking one of the blankets for the couch. He was asleep in minutes, but Berwald's thoughts still spun-Tino, brave and willing and beautiful Tino versus the danger of him being _here_. He silently cursed himself. These kinds of rules were different. He couldn't bring gorgeous dancers home because if the Stasi knew they were here…

Berwald turned onto his side and forced himself to close his eyes. They would face the world together, and that was all that mattered. He would figure everything else out tomorrow.

0o0o0o

The morning came with birdsong and the smell of cooking food. Berwald lay for a while, rubbing his neck from where he hadn't fit on the couch, before blurrily realizing that someone was cooking. He got up and trudged into the kitchen, still confused, and was greeting with a smiling Tino.

'Sorry I fell asleep on you yesterday,' he said, offering a plate of food. The rest of the dishes were nearly stacked away from his reams of books. Berwald took the offered plate, still in shock as Tino put away the pan and sat down across from him. He was still blushing slightly. 'You've got a lot of books.'

'L'ke I said. 'M an editor, not a soldier.' He looked up cautiously. 'Th't...isn't all, though.' People _expected_ things, and he wasn't what they wanted. Tino smiled.

'I understand. It's another reason why I became a dancer,' he said with a shrug, still eyeing him carefully. Berwald put down his fork, determined suddenly to just _say_ it, to confirm that they had the same preferences, but Tino blurted out suddenly, 'I've never been in the East before.'

'Really?'

'Never.' Tino laughed and sat back, rubbing at his hands. 'I was...wondering, if I could see it? With you?'

Berwald thought that was a better idea, regardless.

**0o0o0o**

_**:: Magazines stacked up on tables**_


	3. Chapter 3

Even the dull concrete buildings of the East seemed brighter with Tino beside him. He had such genuine, wide-eyed amazement over the smallest things, and it made Berwald realize how much beauty he must have been missing because he was so caught up in his dirty work for the Stasi. Around Tino, the same world he'd always been in suddenly had an artist's touch.

'What's a place you go to around here?' Tino asked. Berwald wavered. He didn't want to seem like he didn't get around as much.

'There's...th' _Stalinallee_.' He gestured, feeling too-tall and self-conscious, but Tino smiled.

'I'd like that.'

Berwald was more impressed with himself and that he hadn't made a mistake in something yet. He was content to walk along the brightly lit streets and watch Tino's awe.

Berwald felt even more out of place in the glittering street. These were the well-to-do, those who'd struck their own deals with the Stasi and made their livings on the backs of those who couldn't afford to. He despised them and himself in the same way.

Tino didn't know of any of this, and Berwald swore he would do his best to keep it that way.

'There's a movie theatre,' he said, shaking Berwald from his thoughts. Tino was gazing towards a small place with _Kosmos_ emblazoned over the door. He glanced up, his soft purple eyes teasing and questioning at once. 'Do you want to go?'

The movies were better in the West, Berwald could have said. The theatre would be stocked with spies, and he would be in trouble for bringing a West dancer into this falsely shining world. And an hour or two in close quarters with Tino might cause him to do something even more dangerous. But looking into his open face, Berwald knew he could never say no.

''F course,' he muttered, striding up to get tickets.

Tino wanted to watch a murder mystery who's poster showed blood in amounts Berwald thought were wildly excessive. He was having little success convincing him away from his choice until Tino spotted the next advertised poster.

'We have to watch _Gone With The Wind!_' he declared, dragging Berwald up to the concession to pay before he could object. It was playing soon, and Berwald had no time or will to say no. In all honesty, he was so thankful they weren't watching the first choice that he didn't realize what he'd been cajoled into until they were sitting high-up in the dimly-lit theatre.

'T'no,' he said warningly. Watching an obviously Western movie with a dancer was bad enough, but to have his death warrant be signed because of an agonizing romance was not how he wanted to go.

But he looked sideways to see the wonder on Tino's face as the colours spilled across the screen, flickering onto his features like their northern lights, and realized he'd do anything for him.

The movie was just as he remembered, but for the first time, he found himself paying attention to more than the actor. He watched the romance on the screen and found himself wondering what it would be like. He wondered if Tino longed to be held that way. The thought of some dashing, dark-haired man caressing him made his mouth bitter with something like _jealousy_.

Given, it wasn't the first time he'd been jealous of Clark Gable, but this was different. He shook it away, and Tino looked towards him. The screen painted his face with soft colours, a strange effect in the dark.

'Berwald, are you okay?' he questioned. His hand shifted closer until they overlapped, warm and prickling across his skin. Berwald's breath caught, and the world narrowed down to this-Tino's hand on his and his concerned expression and the way he leaned _closer_ between their seats was sending electric shocks through him and he was _not_ okay.

''M fine,' he managed to say. 'Just...watching.'

'It is a good romance, I guess.' Tino turned back to the screen. He didn't remove his hand, and Berwald sat in stiff shock. The movie seemed to flash by after that, and he couldn't even concentrate on the actor the way he usually did.

When it was done, Tino almost _giggled_, finally taking his hand away. He'd somehow smuggled a few of his strange candies in, and a wrapper lay between their seats. Berwald unclenched his jaw, subtly trying to work out the cramp in his neck, and wondered if he had ever felt so many confusing, terrible, wonderful things before. Tino was beautiful, the overhead lights making his hair look like a curled halo, and his thoughts were spinning around him and the dark-haired actor.

'Was 't good?' he asked. Tino nodded, leading him from the darkness into the bright sunlight. Berwald squinted, his headache only getting worse.

'Yes, especially-' He giggled again, face flushed up to his ears and down to his chest. 'Clarke Gable? He was...really good.'

Oh. Berwald thought he might have forgotten how to talk, or breathe properly, or do anything but stare. He couldn't mean-but he _did_, and he was floating and burning at the same time. Tino was looking at the ground, his flush deepening.

'Yes,' he finally choked out, desperate for Tino to understand. 'I was-you kn'w, watching. It's...f'ne.'

'Really?' Tino gazed at him in an awed sort of way that made Berwald feel entirely horrible and entirely too good.

'Yes.' He felt himself rest a hand on Tino's shoulder, more to balance himself against the steadiness there than offer his own support. 'Really.'

'Thank you, Berwald,' Tino murmured, sounding so thankful that he had to let go of him and turn away.

'I'll take you h'me now,' he said. Tino was quiet the rest of the way to the border. Berwald didn't want to let him go yet, and the sentiment seemed to be shared.

'You don't mind?' he asked quietly. Berwald rushed to try to reassure him, painfully aware of his clumsy attempt. He wasn't brave enough to confess that he was the same, even now. Seeing Tino so quiet and sad made him want to fix that no matter what it took.

'It's just h'w you are. And I love all 'f you.'

A moment after the words were out, he froze in horror. Tino hadn't seemed to notice. He was staring absorbedly at his hands.

'That's what I was trying to say yesterday. About me being a dancer. I used to be a cook, you know.' He wrapped his arms around himself, lost in his thoughts. 'Until they found out. I'm lucky that they didn't turn me in. Feliks-he's my friend, the one who's good with clothes-he vouched for me. I don't know what he did, but...I'm here now.' He gave a tiny, broken smile, and Berwald ached with the need to _tear_ something, fix the injustice, make this wrong thing right, make the whole damn world better for him. He'd been told that drive was what would get him killed and he didn't care.

'I'm glad.'

'Thank you, Berwald.' He straightened up, pushing his hair back with an attempt at a brave smile. 'It's better now, in the West. I love dancing, and they love us. It's easier to pretend things when people are cheering it than when they're booing, but I would rather never pretend at all.'

'I kn'w.'

Tino's smile was watery and sorrowful around the edges, but his eyes were dry now. 'What about you? Can you do what you want in the East?'

His throat felt tight. 'No.'

'What do you want? If you could have anything in the entire world.'

_You_, Berwald wanted to say. But he couldn't, not even in a dream world.

'A library,' he said hesitantly. 'I'd l'ke to be a librarian, in a h'ge place. And-and wr'te books.'

Tino's smile was like the rising sun. 'You deserve a library of gold.'

He couldn't help sliding his hand up to cup his face, his slight curls brushing Berwald's fingertips. 'Tino.'

He didn't pull away. His breath was warm across his wrist. 'I would write you a book, you know. You're the kind of person books should be written for. Because you're kind, and brave, and you still like me after it all.'

Oh, it was so much more than simple _liking_.

'I'd be yours through anythin',' Berwald promised roughly. Tino took his other hand, intensity shining in his eyes.

'If you'll have me, I'd stay with you.'

This was everything he didn't know he'd wanted and so _dangerous_. He had to let go, had to step away and not look at what might be reflected in Tino's gorgeous eyes or he'd do something reckless.

'What do y' want?' he asked, still tracing the cracked lines of the pavement with his eyes. 'Anythin'.' _And I'll give it to you_.

'A happy life with someone after all of this.' Tino sounded so wistful he couldn't help but look up, expecting him to be staring away, dreaming of the future, but his gaze was locked on his. 'Somewhere up where the northern lights shine every night. Something safe and domestic. A house to ourselves. And a little dog.' His smile broke, his eyes shimmering. 'I'm being ridiculous, aren't I? What does someone like me have to hope for?'

Berwald touched his cheek, swept away by him, by all of him. '_Everything_.'

They were close, and closer, and he could smell the candies that Tino always seemed to have, and the clean scent of his hair, and he _couldn't_ but God, he wanted to-

Tino's lips pressed against his cheek just where he'd touched, the curve just under the bone, burning his thoughts to everything and nothing for a moment and Berwald forgot everything else.

'I learned that from an artist,' Tino said. His eyes shone. 'Did you know that in Italian, _ciao_ means both hello and goodbye?'

'N'ver liked goodbyes,' Berwald mumbled. His thoughts were stuck. He could still feel the kiss on his cheek.

'Me either.' Tino let go, and Berwald would collapse or scream or spontaneously combust or anything if he wasn't frozen. 'So...I'll just say I'll see you again.'

He waved, and then he was gone. Berwald turned and went back to his grey, too-empty studio, head spinning with the image of houses and lights and tiny dogs, and _then_ he collapsed onto his bed that still smelled like odd sweets and the edges of makeup, pressed a pillow into his mouth, and roared.

0o0o0o

He was woken the next day by knocking. As bleary as he was, he didn't realize the careful, almost soft knocks were nothing like the hammering he was used to until he threw open the door and was faced not with a grinning Dane but with the colonel himself.

'Braginsky,' he said. The man inclined his head, his small smile soft and deadly. Berwald didn't fear many things, but he knew that whatever Ivan wanted from him, he would get. This was never a fight he could win.

Ivan sat down on his favourite couch where Mathias always sprawled out on, his presence making the whole room feel cold.

'Special ord'rs?' Berwald asked. His heart was pounding. He had to pretend, always, but this time, the crowd was waiting eagerly for him to slip.

'No, not today.' Ivan leaned forwards, his smile never changing. 'How about you go get something for us to drink?'

Berwald stiffly walked away, keeping the colonel in his line of sight. Ivan watched him as he poured them both glasses and returned to his battered coffee table.

'If it's n't orders…' he said warningly, knowing he had no power even here in his own home.

'Do you like dance, Berwald?' Ivan asked calmly. Berwald couldn't stop himself from flinching. It was half a movement, but Ivan saw. He always saw. 'I thought you might.'

Berwald said nothing. He could wait out this torture, accept whatever terms he needed. As long as Tino was safe, because he was all that mattered.

'You know I have this...family, da?' He spread his hands out, gesturing to his network of spies. 'They, too, are like a _dance_-like chess. And Mother Russia, the glory, she is the queen. I want you to be a knight of hers.'

Ivan wanted him to bully the spies who weren't working. The idea made his stomach turn, but he couldn't say no. There was no saying no now, and they both knew it.

'Now?' he asked, trying to keep his voice flat and indifferent. His hands curled into fists.

'No, not yet. First we must _trap_.' He slid his empty glass across the table until it rested at an angle to Berwald's untouched one. 'And then…'

He slapped his hand down on the table, shattering the silence. Berwald stared blindly, trying to breathe. The air was too thick.

'I will tell you when Mother Russia is in need of your services, Berwald,' Ivan said. He rose, dusting off his greatcoat. 'And then perhaps you can go dancing again. Consider it.'

Berwald didn't see him leave. He stayed by the glasses on the table for a long time before he grabbed Ivan's, ran to the back door, and smashed it in the dirt. His breathing was rasping too-quick through his throat, rough and raw. The glass shards looked like stars, lights that taunted and mocked any foolish hope he'd ever had. Tino had wanted safety, and he would never have it with Berwald.

It was foolish of him to think anything could have ever changed.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Sun on fresh snow when all is silent_**


	4. Chapter 4

The next weeks were work, as usual. Berwald wasn't called back to the club, and he wasn't called by anyone else, Russian colonels or Finnish dancers.

The world seemed to be holding its breath, tense and coiled like it was bracing itself for something. Berwald wanted to go out and shake away the heavy, cloying feeling of something looming on the horizon, but he didn't dare. He knew that if he allowed himself to wander away from work he'd end up walking to the club and confessing everything in his heart to Tino.

He finally couldn't stand it anymore and threw on his family coat, ducking his face behind the collar and sweeping out into the street. He didn't look towards the border, he didn't think of what he could do beyond this one job. Because this was a job. It always was.

Mathias had told him about the headquarters of his ragtag group of artists. Berwald had taken it as a suggestion of which places not to go, but now he was desperate.

When he pushed open the door, squinting into the dull light and thick fumes of smoke and alcohol, people immediately turned towards him. Pistols flashed from under coats. Berwald tensed, trying to back away. As informal as people here were, they knew how to fight. They'd been doing it long enough.

'Ber!'

Mathias lunged towards him and clapped him heartily on the shoulder. Berwald didn't bother rebuking him, he was more grateful that the people had now calmed after Mathias' unknowing show of support.

'C'n I talk to you?' Berwald muttered. Mathias nodded, grabbing two bottles off a side table and leading him towards the back, where the smoke was heavier. Berwald waved it away.

'Didn't think you were ever gonna show up.' Mathias' eyes were bright as he tossed over one of the bottles and twisted the cap off. Berwald didn't know how to explain that he was never going to join this hopeless death sentence of a group, but the Dane was already rambling on. 'You know, things have been getting weird lately. Before- before Gilbert got himself shot, you know, he had all these ideas that the Russian were going to do somethin' to his precious city.' He snorted. 'He loved this hunk of bricks and steel more than any human. But I was thinking that he might have had a point. We sent out Feliks to do some reconnaissance a week back, talk some people into telling, all the stuff he's great at, but he hasn't been back. Nobody has recently. I haven't seen Toris in a month.' He paused and eyed Berwald's bottle. 'If you're not going to drink that…'

The name Feliks worried at him for a moment before he remembered it was one of Tino's dance troop members. It was surprising to know the odd dancer was part of something like this, but he brushed it away. Feliks was probably just practicing and hadn't gotten back yet.

He gripped the cold glass, condensation running into the gnawed ends of his nails.

'C'n you protect some'ne?' he asked. Mathias sat back, raising an eyebrow.

'Lot to ask for a bottle.'

'I'll pay,' he said in a rush. 'Anyth'ng.'

'Anything.' Mathias gave him an odd smile, eyes crinkling sadly. 'It's not money we're looking for. You know we need people, Ber.'

His stomach twisted. Of course. It would be insane to try to outwit Ivan and Mathias and keep Tino safe all at the same time, but it was what he had to do.

'I help you,' he warned, 'and you'll protect h'm with y'r life.'

Mathias looked at him curiously. 'I don't back out on my promises. Who is your...you know?'

'T'no.'

Mathias' face twisted in concentration. 'A dancer, right?' Berwald nodded. 'From Feliks' group? That'll make it easier to keep track of him. Which one is he?'

Berwald didn't know how to even begin describing Tino. He awkwardly waved his hand at chest height to where Tino's curls came up to, feeling his face heat up. Mathias understood, and his face brightened.

'The guy with the pretty face, soft hair and those big purplish eyes?'

Berwald felt an irrational rush of _something_ at hearing Mathias describe Tino that way. A snarling, bitter sort of _jealousy_ that made him feel vindictive and defensive and angry at Mathias and himself all at once. He couldn't look at him, and jerked his head in agreement, snapping off the cap of the bottle. Mathias didn't seem to have noticed.

'So, who's after him?' He took Berwald's opened bottle. He didn't resist.

'Ivan.'

Mathias froze. 'Mother of God, Berwald, I'm stupid, but I'm not _that_ stupid. Get out. Your muscle isn't worth him finding out.'

'No!' Berwald lurched to his feet, irrationally angry still. 'Iv'n is after _me_.'

'Then what are you doing here, you crazy bastard?' Mathias pushed his hands over his face and through his hair, making it stick up even more. His mouth pulled into a grimace of a grin, and his shoulders shook with near-hysterical mirth. 'Go dig your own grave.'

'_L'sten_ to me,' Berwald snarled, grabbing the lapel of his dark coat and dragging him across the table. Mathias looked up at him in shock, hands braced on the rough, splintery wood. Berwald hauler him closer. 'I'll do _anyth'ng_ for him. _Protect him.'_

Mathias struggled, and he finally let go, feeling guilty. Mathias rubbed at where he'd grabbed, not meeting his eyes.

'I'll keep him safe,' he said. 'But if Ivan wants you, you realize what's going to happen, right?'

Berwald didn't want to answer. Mathis glanced up, his exuberant blue eyes shadowed.

'We can't protect him if you keep staying by him,' he said, and his voice was strangely gentle. 'I'm sorry. I really am. But sometimes-'

'Th'nk you,' Berwald choked out, and then he turned on his heel and left before he could crack in front of so many eyes.

He was too angry at himself to think properly, and like a magnet being pulled, he found himself in the West, in front of the bar like waking up from a dream. It could very well be his worst and best decision, but he walked into the bright dark to find beautiful, curious Tino.

Berwald couldn't make himself care enough to stop himself, and he strode into the mass of bodies on the dance floor, losing himself to the pulsing beat and the crush of dozens of people who were just as hopeless and lost to their private lives and loves as he was. He closed his eyes and listened to the people sing the lyrics of the new Western crooner song. For some reason, he joined in, his rough voice creaking and breaking on all the wrong notes, but he couldn't care less.

'_Any way you want me, well, that's how I will be…_'

'You didn't tell me you were coming back,' came a voice to his side, and his eyes snapped open. Tino stood there, eyes lined with silvery glitter paint that brought out the highlights of his face and hair and wearing that same tight black shirt and tighter shorts made of a shiny, slick silver and blue material. Berwald's mouth went very dry and all his bitter jealousy was suddenly gone. _Oh_.

'First t'me,' he stammered. 'First time back.'

'I thought so.' His eyes were soft, and when he smiled, the paint reflected the light a thousand ways. 'I guess I've been waiting. Does that sound strange? I think it is, because I was supposed to go to you. That's what happens when I know where you live and you only know this place. Which may as well be my home now.' He trailed off, face red, hands fumbling with the empty glasses he held. 'How are you?'

'Good,' Berwald said, still staring. 'You?'

'Good!' Tino smiled embarrassedly. 'Feliks hasn't shown up for practice, though. I wonder where he is. I wondered where _you_ were. Oh, that sounds rude. I wanted you to come back.' He stopped abruptly again, eyelashes fluttering, eyes half-lidded. They looked glittering the same way. 'I want you.'

Berwald made a sort of disbelieving, choked noise that got caught in his throat and turned into a soft gasp. Tino wanted him, somehow, impossibly. He looked up, evident horror on his face.

'Oh, God, I didn't mean to say that out loud and you already _know_ about me liking people and I'm so sorry and if you don't want to be around me anymore-'

Berwald grabbed him and pulled him in and pressed a kiss to his hair. It was the only thing he could do to stop himself from kissing Tino senseless. He would never be allowed this afterwards, so he was going to throw himself finally into this want and love.

'I don't have much t'me,' he said quietly. 'I want to spend it w'th you.'

'What happened?' Tino clutched at his arm, that same fire flaring in them.

Berwald just shook his head. 'Wh're do you want to go?'

Tino held his gaze for a moment more, a blush spreading down his chest. 'I can show you my home,' he said carefully. They both knew what it meant, and Berwald no longer felt the cold of outside.

'I'd like that,' he said huskily. Tino shivered and smiled, and led him away from the noise and into his world.

0o0o0o

Tino's apartment was cramped and tiny compared to Berwald's office but so bright and obviously like Tino that he loved it.

'That's where you hang your coats. If I had people who came over with coats.'

'D'you often?'

'No.' Tino glanced up at him again. 'Just you.'

He had to look away first and hang up his blue coat with trembling hands. As he was pretending to adjust it, a warm hand pressed against the small of his back. When he turned around, Tino held his gaze evenly.

'The first time I saw you, you looked like a Red Army soldier,' he said. The heat of his hand seemed to be melting through Berwald's knitted sweater and into his very being. 'I'm really glad you're not a soldier. You said we weren't what was expected of us, right?'

'Right,' he said, entranced.

'I think you're too kind to be a soldier. I hope you become a librarian. I'll come read all your books. I hope there's books written about you.'

'Who w'ld read them?' he breathed.

'I would. I want to know you.' The hand traces along his stomach, his hip, until it brushed skin between his sweater and his pants. Berwald was floating as Tino smiled. 'Do they allow dogs in libraries?'

'Th's one does.'

He giggled, and then stepped back. Berwald nearly grabbed for him again, but Tino reached around himself and tugged up his own black shirt.

'Do they allow people to live in libraries?' he asked with a small curve of a smile. 'Even if they have dogs?'

'I make except'ns.' He hesitated. 'Any way y'want me.'

'I like that.' Tino took his trembling hands in his and let Berwald trace up his arms to the soft, muscular set of his shoulders. He did so eagerly, amazed by everything, down to the swell of his breathing. 'We are the exceptions. You'll be a librarian and I'll take care of a little dog in a house full of books. Some people think we've lost our paths, but I don't think we have. My path leads to you. You're my north star.' He paused, considering, with that small smile on his face. 'Pohjantähti. That's how you say pole star in Finnish.'

'In Swedis', it's...polstjärnan.'

'I like that.' Tino unbuttoned his shirt, and Berwald eagerly stripped out of it and they collapsed on the couch.

'You said you didn't have much time.' Tino touched an old wound on his stomach, among the muscles. 'Just for tonight, stay here.'

'As long as y'want me,' Berwald promised recklessly, because he was allowed to be reckless.

Tino smiled and laid his bare palms against his chest. Berwald had to steady himself, try to remember breathing as he leaned in.

'Isn't that a funny song?' he mused. '_Any Way You Want Me_. I don't think what I have wanted is ever what people expect. Sometimes things are different. And even if our story doesn't get told, it happened. We happen.'

'I'll wr'te us,' Berwald said. He threaded his fingers with Tino's and kissed the palm. 'If you w'nt.'

'You'd do that?' His eyes shimmered. Berwald reached forward and wiped away the glitter, leaving beautiful, perfect Tino.

'Anything,' he said again. 'I'm yours. Any way y'want me.'

Tino smiled like the sun and brushed at his cheek with his free hand.

'I really like you, Berwald,' he said simply. 'Just as you are.' And then they were close and closer and kissing and he could taste those strange candies and alcohol and sweetness. He moaned softly and Berwald was sure he'd give the whole world to hear that soft noise again. And Tino did it again, a questioning, almost needy noise, and Berwald was whispering his name like the prayer it should be, over and over until the sun came back up and the whole city glittered like faraway snow.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Pavement cracked and sparkling with frost and ice_**


	5. Chapter 5

Berwald awoke feeling bruised and tender and so indescribably full of emotion and love that he couldn't move, only stare at the feathery edges of Tino's hair against the glittering window and wonder in not so many words how someone like him got here, laying on this leather couch with this beautiful dancer.

'Tino,' he whispered, fingertips grazing the edges of his clothing, where the muscle pressed back against soft skin. He didn't think he'd ever tire of looking at him, of finding out new things and new depths to his enchanting purple eyes. Tino shifted in his sleep, curling towards his touch, and Berwald let him be, more for himself than for him. He didn't trust himself not to wake Tino right then to kiss him again.

He eased all of his height away from the couch without knocking anything over, and stood by the window, taking in the sleeping city. The nightlife never really stopped roaring and the lights never went out completely, but for a few drowsy grey hours, things came a little softer and the morning star gleamed red. He lingered over that for a moment more, tracing cold condensation trails in spools around the window frame, thinking of their words about pole stars. He'd never wondered- never had _cause_ to wonder- what feeling like that could be before. Now that he knew, he understood.

He shook himself away, unsurprised to find an unfamiliar smile on his face, and set about making breakfast. When Tino woke up, the beaming, endearing smile on his face made Berwald wish they'd never stopped kissing. 'You're amazing, Berwald,' Tino exclaimed as he dug in. He could feel his neck reddening, and focused on the stove.

'Th'nks.'

'Really.' Tino paused to chew thoughtfully, the end of his fork tapping on his plastic tablecloth. Patterned with penguins. Berwald's heart squeezed all over again. 'Thank you. For everything. And I don't just mean the food, even though it's really good. You could become a chef if you wanted. For yesterday, and for everything before that.'

Berwald knew he was staring, that he was still stupidly clutching a spatula and half-bent to avoid the top of the stove. 'Why?'

Tino's face contorted in a mix of amusement and disbelief. It made him almost forget what he was asking.

'I feel like you don't want to understand who you are.' He slipped out of his seat and stood in front of him, and Berwald frantically worried that his hair wasn't standing up or his clothes weren't too crumpled from sleeping on the couch before Tino's arms looped behind his neck and pulled him down to kiss, and Berwald forget everything else.

'You're brave. Did you know that?' Tino's fingers pulled gently at the mussed curls of his hair next to his ear. 'But you're gentle, too. I think that's more important. You do the kindest thing in wartime.'

'What's th't?' Berwald breathed. Tino tilted his head, eyes gleaming.

'Love.'

Berwald closed his eyes and buried his face in his shoulder, breathing in his sweet smell, trying to resist the urge to laugh. Love was the cruelest thing to do in war. Love would bring him back again and again to where Ivan could hurt Tino. Love would force him to run away from this perfect thing, to find some barren expanse of Russia so far away from this electric city that even the northern lights couldn't remind him of Tino. Love meant this was a last night, not the blooming, wonderful beginning between them he wanted.

'T'no,' Berwald said hoarsely, praying to hold onto this for just a few seconds longer. 'I love you.'

His eyes widened and held. 'I love you too, Berwald.'

Berwald chuckled bitterly against his shoulder and pulled him in for a kiss before Tino could say any more. After a moment, they sank back into each other, bodies fitting together, and Berwald knew he'd always feel like half of him was left in this colourful apartment with the view of the morning star and the bright, impossible dancer.

'I'm sorry,' he said. Tino's eyes blinked open in concern.

'Berwald?'

He couldn't meet his eyes, resting his chin on the top of his head. He was being a coward. He was a coward, for leading them both into this. The least he could do would be to tell Tino where he'd be, to send off his memory under the northern stars.

'The...the Red Army. Iv'n.' He swallowed the lump choking in his throat and kissed his soft hair. 'I h've to go.'

'No.' Tino gripped his arms to hold him still, his strength coming out in bruises. Berwald wanted it, even that touch, but Tino immediately loosened his hold. 'No. You can't run away.'

That's what he was doing, wasn't it? Running away.

'It's f'r _you_,' he said, trying to impress it, feeling bemused and drifting. 'He- he threat'ned me. Warned me what would h'ppen to you.'

'I don't care.' Tino held onto him, shaking him until Berwald broke from his haze to look down. 'I want you.'

'I want y' too.' His voice wavered. Couldn't Tino see how much this hurt him? Berwald would give anything for him, but he'd been stupid and broken the unspoken rules and fallen in love, and now, standing in this tiny kitchen with the end of their futile happinesses still laying around them, and now it was Tino at stake. He couldn't risk that.

'Then stay,' Tino insisted, eyes gleaming fiercely. 'We can- we'll make it, Berwald, together. I promise.'

Berwald wanted to believe him. He wanted to have what Tino offered, the idyllic life together with a dog. Looking into his shining face, it would be so easy, so easy to say yes and imagine they would make it.

But nobody could challenge Ivan and live. Nobody who wasn't a crazy bastard already on death row like that madman Beilschmidt. Berwald had survived by never being like him.

'I can't,' he said. He couldn't look at him, at the disappointment and disgust. He could feel the heat of his skin, and the beating of his heat and memorized the feel of his hair and skin. Tino's hand wound in his hair, slow and gentle like he'd never deserved.

'You're brave,' he said, soft and steady despite the shimmering tears hesitating at the edge of his words. 'And I still love you.'

Berwald nodded, eyes still fixed on the floor. His head felt fuzzy, and it was easier not to know which one of them started it, pressed their mouths gently together. This felt like goodbye.

Tino's hand traced up his face.

'Open your eyes,' he insisted. Berwald did, and found his face open and adoring, without the disgust he had feared. 'I love you, Berwald.'

'Tino,' he started, but his words tangled under the lump in his throat and he couldn't, couldn't, couldn't.

'Berwald.' He smiled even as his voice broke, and they both knew. Tino understood, and even though Berwald would do anything to fix this, this was how the world went.

They did nothing but stay together, swaying in the middle of the early morning kitchen. Tino finally took a deep breath and spoke again.

'I won't see you again, will I?'

Berwald shook his head. This couldn't be the end, in this tiny flat surrounded by unspoken promises. Tino nodded, and strangely, smiled. 'Will you dance with me, then?'

Berwald knew he couldn't do the acrobatic flips and twirls Tino's dance troop did, but Tino slipped away to tune a radio, bringing in crackling Elvis. He turned back, hands held out, eyes impossibly soft.

'Trust me?' he asked, and of course Berwald did, with _everything_, couldn't deny him this.

It wasn't a proper dance. Nothing had ever been the way other people expected of them, but this odd, twirling, crooning moment was theirs, and it was perfect. The song faded out, and they let go.

'Nothing we could have done would have changed this,' Tino said. He was right. In the end, they were nothing against the world, but they had their part, their story. Berwald swore to himself he'd write it.

He pulled on his boots and coat in silence, the air thick in his throat. This was the end. This was the last time, when it hadn't ever been enough. Berwald turned at the door and kissed him suddenly, fierce and bright in both of them. He'd remember. He'd remember enough to put down on paper what he tasted like and what his pulse felt like fluttering against his.

'I love you, Tino,' he said. Only then did he leave.

0o0o0o

The Roman was a strange bar. Berwald never knew what to think of the Americans who frequented it, or the fiery bartender. And there were the whispers, if you knew where to listen, about the people who talked too loudly there going missing.

Berwald didn't feel like talking. He wanted to drink until he couldn't see and couldn't think, and then he wanted to find Ivan and _ignite_ with all his helpless rage and make him understand what this threat of war and power did.

He didn't. Ivan would find him first. And he did, the next day, smoking in the alley beside the bar. Berwald was bitterly impressed how fast the news must have traveled.

'You aren't a drunkard, Berwald,' he said, eyes dancing with light. 'You're a smart man. You came, after all.'

If he spoke, he'd spit out every curse he knew, scream everything that he'd lost, so he didn't. Ivan pinched his cigarette out and carefully stowed it away before walking. He didn't look back to see if Berwald was following. There was no need.

'I am impressed you came of your own volition,' Ivan complimented as they turned a corner. He slowed so Berwald had no choice but to walk beside him. 'Some are not so willing, but I always win them over in the end. I hope I will not have to try as hard with you.'

He couldn't look at him. Berwald stared at the scuffed toes of his boots. Ivan stopped. 'I know you are not a man of many words, Berwald,' he said softly. 'But you know I do not like to be kept waiting.'

'What- what d' you need me to do?' Berwald bit out.

'Nothing.' Ivan chuckled, light again. 'I only want to take a walk.' He paused, and Berwald made the mistake of glancing up to see the glimmer of his eyes before they turned onto the street where he'd seen the movie with Tino. The presence of the colonel tainted this place, and even the people lucky enough to be drunk on this glitter knew him and shied back.

Berwald knew what he was doing, that his alliance was being paraded, that people could look at him and think traitor. For the first time, he was glad Tino isn't nearby. This made him feel sick and bright with rage.

'Tell me about your dancer,' Ivan murmured, soft as the wind or bird wings. Surrounded by the muted roar of people, Berwald was the only one who could hear. He dug his ragged nails into his palms and stared ahead into the masses of people.

'What do y' want to kn'w?'

'How far would you go for him, Berwald?' The voice drew closer, cold and soft as snow against the back of his neck, sliding down his spine like condensation. 'Would you do something you said you would not? Fight a hopeless artist's fight? I thought you were a smart man.'

Ivan knew where he'd gone. Berwald stared at him in abject horror, speechless. He had to warn Mathias, but the colonel would know. For all he knew, the resistance was being raided right now.

'You friend speaks his mind at bars,' Ivan said, breaking him from his daze. His face was alight with an odd, gleaming smile, almost childishly, and the momentary relief Berwald felt that the foolish, hopeful resistance wasn't lost was drowned out by his fear of that smile. 'They have never been good at choosing their ringleaders. Before this, it was a revolutionary named Gilbert.'

Irrationally, ridiculously, the mention of Gilbert was what broke his control, and he had his hands wrapped around the Russian's broad wrists, shoving him back before he could think better. He wished someone was watching now, watching him finally try to fight against something. But Ivan was a solid, hot mass of muscle against him, and they stayed locked together, grappling, before they found themselves evenly matched and had to let go.

'I like you very much, Berwald.' His eyes were overbright, and his breathing swelled against his overcoat. Berwald thought it was more from delight, from his hunter instincts waking, than any stress from the brief clash.

'I'll do what y' want,' he breathed. His pulse hammered. 'Just...don't h'rt them.'

'I take care of my own.' The colonel pressed a heavy pack of bills into his hand. 'Why don't you take a night?' he added, that smile gleaming. Red light spilled from the bar they'd stopped in front of, showing flashes of clothing and skin. Berwald dug his nails in, feeling nauseated. 'To take your mind off things.'

Berwald took the money, mouth tasting like bile, but his hands stayed steady. They had to, for him to survive here.

'I won't let y' touch him,' he warned, even if it was futile.

'Don't worry. Things change, you know. I will need you soon.' Invan inclined his head and walked away, easily cutting through the crowd. Berwald deliberately put the money in his pocket and left the street, heading for Mathias, for someone who wasn't Tino, because they couldn't be. Nobody had changed Berwald like him.

**0o0o0o**

_**:: Boulevards with poplar trees at night**_


	6. Chapter 6

Berwald knew he wasn't supposed to visit the rambling apartment complex where Mathias and his friends occasionally stayed. It was dangerous enough for them to try to live unnoticed without someone else arriving.

There was a candle stub lit inside, and someone scribbling on a scrap of crumpled paper that he could see through the window. Berwald opened the door, and Mathias jumped, a hand going to the pistol under his coat before he relaxed.

'Give a guy some warning, Ber.'

'It's d'ne,' he snapped, too hurt at his own stupid, foolhardy emotions to care. 'I won't see T'no anymore.'

'Oh.' A quiet grief reflected in his eyes. Maybe that was how they all looked now. For a moment, his brashness drained away and his shoulders slumped in, and he turned away and pinched out his candle, hissing softly. Berwald grabbed for him too late, grimacing in horror.

'Can't waste candles,' Mathias said. The collar of his over-dyed dark coat hid his face. 'I'll keep my end. Tino will be safe. He's already going to be safe, he's a- what do they call them, a _Wessi_. Westerners are safe.' His eyes gleamed for a moment when he glanced back, but then it was gone. 'Maybe it's for the better, that he's over there whenever _that_ happens-'

'What?' Berwald asked sharply. Mathias pulled a face.

'I heard it from Gilbert, before he…' He jerked his head. 'He _swore_ something was going to happen to this city. Another blockade, like before, or something.'

There was a long silence. Mathias broke it by shoving his shoulder, making Berwald narrow his eyes at him. 'I wouldn't think too much of it. It's Gilbert. Full of impossible ideas and enough mad hope to bring a city out of its ashes.'

'If 't was real. W'ld you leave?'

The grip on his upper arm loosened. 'You know I couldn't.'

'Th'n y'r stupid.'

Mathias laughed. 'You should leave if it does happen. You're smart, Ber, that's why you never joined me when I offered.'

_You_ _came_ _on_ _your_ _own_, the unspoken words hovered. Mathias wasn't a cruel man. He wouldn't flaunt that Berwald was one of his men now, but the knowledge was there, subtle but unmistakable.

Berwald didn't say anything. Mathias let go.

'Smart,' he repeated, rubbing at his own arm, pinching the cuff of his coat between his fingers. The burn was angry red. 'Stay that way and you've got a chance to survive this damn place.'

Berwald couldn't say it back. It wouldn't be true. In the second of hesitation, it was too much, and Mathias smiled in that odd, sad way he only did when he was drunk and couldn't remember to not.

'It's probably time for you to go. I'm meeting someone, and you don't want to be seen with me. Bad for your health.'

'Take th's,' Berwald interrupted, shoving the wad of bills at him. 'F'r anything ag'nst the colonel.'

Mathias took it, scrutinizing the papers. 'Not that I'm saying no, but why?'

'T's from him,' Berwald said grimly. He wasn't going to say any more. Mathias relented, but grabbed his arm again as he left.

'It's going to be hard, Ber, but maybe you should…' He winced, the grief lighting again. 'Find someone else, okay?'

His coat sleeve was falling back as he held his shoulder. Berwald could see the angry circular brand of a cigarette in the soft underside of his arm, and the desperate shadows under his eyes. Mathias never knew how to step away from something lost, and neither had Gilbert. _You're going to die like him_, Berwald would have said if Mathias' eyes wouldn't have lit up with adrenaline delight. He had no right to tell _Berwald_, who'd always been so goddamn careful with his heart and his life, to let go.

'Let go,' Berwald snarled, brushing his hand off and stalking away.

He wanted Tino. He wanted to go back to another time. He wanted to be somewhere else, away from this split city that was always cracking into a million more pieces. He wandered the streets. People stayed out of his way when he glared, and he took a sick pleasure in it, which only made him feel worse. Tino had thought he was good, and he wanted to prove that he _was_, but what was the point now?

By the time he stumbled home, he had to light a candle. The sight of the newspapers always piled up made him roar with rage, and he swept them away, chest heaving, glaring at them lying on the ground. The terrible gaping pain in his chest lessened slightly. He could imagine being in a resistance like Mathias, trying to heal that pain with every scar on an empire. He could go back and join wholly. Nobody would be left to hurt from it.

But with an effort, he sat down by his table instead, with the glass still left behind. He pushed it carefully aside, set down the candle, and brought out a blank piece of paper from under the piles of newspapers. He wrote by the flickering light about everything he couldn't stop thinking of, until all his tangled thoughts about how Tino looked in the multicolour of the club and the gentle night were out of his head and in the ink and paper. Nobody would ever read it, but he was able to sleep after it was done and shut away under a loose floorboard.

It became a routine, in the weeks to come. In the safety of darkness, he would write. It drew him in, wrapping his head in the soft promise of words. The messengers who came to pick up the edited news articles looked pleased with his work, and Berwald made the mistake of relaxing.

He wandered the Stalinallee, brushing past people who talked about their lives. He felt light- not like he had with Tino, but away from the bitter anger he'd had before. Light, and waiting for something.

That _something_ stepped out in front of him with an armful of glittering clothing and when they locked eyes, he had already rushed forward, and the clothing was tangled between their hands.

'Berwald?' Tino asked, hopeful, too hopeful. Berwald should leave. It was too dangerous, and there was Braginsky and the unknowable threat of separation and loss, but he couldn't leave.

He didn't know what he was feeling anymore. He'd said his goodbyes, locked up his heart and left all of this, the wonderful feeling of them behind- that was enough, it had to be. He couldn't go through the rise and fall again, but _God_, he would, if Tino told him to. He was standing there, soft smile and bright eyes, hands held out like he'd been only waiting to give him back the whole world. Berwald should have run and never looked back, but he held him closer instead.

Before he could stop himself, they were huddled in a side street, Tino packaging his clothes back into a bag and then taking his hand. Berwald stared at their hands together, forgetting words for a moment. He'd missed this with a deep hunger, and he wanted so much of it right now.

'Wh't are y' doing here?' he said to Tino, mind still stuttering five steps back.

'Buying a uniform.' He rustled the bag offhandedly, still gazing into his eyes. 'What about you?'

He couldn't answer, fixated on the slope of his shoulder. 'I...T'no, I can't.'

'You shouldn't. We shouldn't,' he said. There was still a hopefulness in his face that betrayed his words. 'Are you going to go?'

'Do y' want me to?' _Tell_ _me_ _to_ _stay_, Berwald silently pleaded.

'No.' Tino's gaze fluttered across his lips. 'I didn't want you to leave.'

'I didn't w'nt to, either,' Berwald breathed. His head was full of humming emotion. Tino ran a fingertip up the gap of his collar, right on the latch of his throat, his expression both faraway and intimate.

'Am I dreaming?' he asked sadly, love written on his face.

'No.' Berwald swallowed hard. 'We can't. Someth'ng will happ'n, a division, and it's bett'r if you stay safe.'

'Safe doesn't have to be away.' He absentmindedly folded the collar of his coat down to see his face better. 'What division?'

'Group of...artists t'ld me,' Berwald muttered.

'Artists? The avant-garde ones?' The hint of amusement took his breath away. 'I've heard that's dangerous in the East.'

'Ev'rything is.' But this, the flutter of his gaze and the promise of heat, that was something more.

'Then...we should make this count, shouldn't we?' Tino's eyes glimmered for half a breath before he had pulled him down by his collar to kiss, and Berwald groaned into his mouth, forgetting the people in the street and Mathias' warnings and the colonel, all of it.

They broke for breath, Tino flushed red.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered, and then in a rush, 'If it happens, whatever it is, promise you'll be with me.'

Did he know how much that was to promise? Berwald didn't know and didn't care. If Tino wanted it, he would find a way. 'I promise.'

Tino squeezed his hand. 'My troop needs me back soon, but...I get home at ten.'

He nodded, unable to speak. Just this once, he'd go. Ivan would never know.

Tino left a last kiss on his collarbone and was gone, a small figure slipping into the crowd. Berwald watched him go and stretched out in the August heat, grinning up at the sky, and started planning how to leave the only place he'd known for the last few years.

He stepped into the nearest pay phone and dialed a familiar number, hoping someone was waiting.

'Mathias?'

'Ber?'

'I need a favour.'

0o0o0o

He kept his head down, buried in the slump of an unfamiliar hat and jacket, when he made his way through the checkpoint. The only guard on duty looked worried and frazzled, waving people through while muttering clipped orders into a radio. It was almost too quiet, too easy to leave, and the imagined weight lifting off his shoulders made him more reckless than he should have been.

_You_ _owe_ _me_, Mathias had sighed, but he could hear the undercurrent of delight at the thought of what he could do. All Berwald needed was a few hours of distraction, a few hours of freedom. When he knocked on the door, Tino opened it and pulled him in.

'You made it,' he breathed. From where they were leaning together, the doorknob was digging into Berwald's back, but he didn't care.

'G't a distraction,' he said, unable to stop a smile.

'What kind?'

'I kn'w an artist.' A madman sort of artist who had sounded downright _hungry_ as he promised to give the Soviets some hell. 'I've only g't an hour or two.'

'Artists again.' Tino sighed and tucked some of Berwald's hair behind his ear. 'I'm sorry you had to do all of this. That everything is like this.'

'Let's m'ke it worth it, then.'

'It already is.'

Berwald hastily stripped out of his unfamiliar coat, struggling to work the fur collar around his shoulders, and left his shoes in a pile by the door. They raced to the bedroom, hands together, knocking against the walls and door frame before they ended up on the bed. Berwald's heart was pounding so loudly he was sure Tino could hear it.

'It's okay,' Tino soothed, breaking him out of the haze. Berwald laughed, unsure, his gaze drawn to his neck and hip and soft purple eyes. He wanted this to last forever.

Tino slowly took off his shirt and Berwald's mouth went dry.

'God,' he said. Tino looked amused, which only made Berwald's face flush more. He ducked down and busied himself unbuttoning his clothes. Fingers brushed at the small of his back, tracing the exposed bumps of his spine. Berwald knew his hair was standing up and his glasses were crooked, but Tino still smiled when he laid a hand on his shoulder blade.

'We don't have much time,' he said, a sad, gentle note in the warning, carefully taking off the glasses. 'You've got such beautiful eyes,' he added softly.

Berwald nodded, _you_ _too_, _you_ _too_, throat thick. 'D' you have- have any…'

Tino handed him a tube of cream and he fumbled with the lid, their earlier lightness fading back. The light fell across them and outside the artists' city roared. Here, they were still alien in their own bodies, wary and exhausted with fear. Tino's brows were knotted with tension. There was always, always the knowledge that this wasn't allowed, as time slipped down like oil over water.

But Berwald worked him open and Tino's eyes shone as he kissed him. There was still the promise of some space where they were allowed.

'Berwald,' Tino panted, burying the noises he made in his chest, nails leaving marks in his shoulders, scraping against old scars there. Berwald groaned, pulse going like a bird. Everything was electric and still at once, tipping and ready to fall.

'You can- you c'n be loud,' he pleaded. 'T'no, love you, love you.'

'_Berwald_,' he said again, a hand knotting in his hair, the scruff at the back of his neck, keeping him close. Berwald wanted to be close, always, wanted to be with him here and live in that hope of a space for them. 'Please, God- love you!'

_I feel like a coward for letting Ivan threaten you,_ Berwald wanted to say. _I'm scared that Gilbert was right. I'm scared that Mathias is right. I'm scared of us but God I want us to have this._

Tino's grip tightened, and he made to cover his mouth as he finished, but Berwald bent closer and kissed the noise from his mouth, whispering what he couldn't express. The heat coiled in his stomach and Tino groaned again when he came. Berwald hurt with how good it was.

When they were lying next to each other, gasping and sated and amazed, Tino raised their hands and kissed their palms together.

'Would you run away, Berwald?' he asked. Berwald didn't answer, afraid of what would come out.

'What d' you mean?'

'To the West. If a division happens, you could stay here. With me.' He blinked, eyelashes catching the light, startled at his own words. 'You can't dance, though, so we'd have to find something else for you.'

A laugh burst from him, through his sore muscles, and behind that, terrible, wonderful hope.

'I want to,' he said.

'Then why don't you?'

It was so ridiculous he turned to stare at him, but there was no mirth there.

'I've been thinking about it,' Tino said. 'If you could- I'm established here, I could figure something out...would you?'

'Of course I w'ld.' The hope was dangerous, it made him respond to the hint of a smile until they were facing each other on the bed, clutching each other's hands. 'Tino…'

His face was radiant, looking at him like it was the only thing worth looking at. 'I love you, Berwald.'

An understanding passed between them, and Berwald suddenly broke away, gathering his clothes and messily pulling them on.

'Tomorrow I'll be b'ck,' Berwald promised. Tino's smile was like the sun. He couldn't believe himself. Ivan couldn't touch him in the West, not when he was with someone who already had the documents and standing.

He cupped his face a final time as he stood at the door.

'I love y', Tino. So much.'

'I love you, too.' He held out a record, the cardboard cover bent and folded in places. Berwald recognized the title, and another pleasant warmth bloomed in his chest. _Any Way You Want Me._

'Until you're back with me,' Tino said. Berwald smiled and kissed him as if for the last time, sinking into that love, before he had to go.

The song spun out it's sweet notes as he haphazardly packed his things, reminding him what was waiting. He half-expected the Stasi to throw open the door at any moment, but there was only the music and the smile he couldn't stop. It was happening all so suddenly, and nervous energy sparked in his fingertips. The last thing he packed was the loaned record. He was swaying with exhaustion, and with the whole world half a breath away, he didn't want to rush into the questions of the irritable night shift guards. He wanted his return to be perfect.

He walked out into the oddly empty street and dialed Mathias. The number rang and rang, and Berwald finally had to abandon the prospect. He wrote a note explaining and hid it under the bottle of Danish schnapps Mathias had given him, to be found whenever he snuck into his house next. It was risky, but Berwald was confident in Mathias at the very least making himself a drink before he went, and therefore finding it before anyone else.

Then, he collapsed into bed, lighter than he'd felt for years, and dreamed of better days.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Things that are stunning in the darkness_**


	7. Chapter 7

He woke up with the sun still dove-grey and pale through the windows, whispering and soft against the tender marks on his shoulders. He shrugged his coat on and took a last look at his papers. He didn't need them. The Red Army would find what he'd left behind later, when he was gone and safe, and he couldn't care less about the trappings of the life that already felt dull and grey.

He picked up his few good belongings and walked out into the empty street. Even on early mornings, Berlin was never this empty, never this quiet, and a flutter of worry knotted around his breathing. He walked faster, making his way to the underground stop, footsteps echoing on the cobblestones. In the distance, he thought he could hear a muted roaring, but he ignored it.

The warm courage that had buoyed him so far left when he saw the crowd huddled around the underground stop. He knew these people, even if he didn't see their faces. He knew their hungry eyes, the hollow cheeks, the broken bend of their shoulders from every night in front of the mirror. Berwald numbly pushed to the front of the crowd, and a guard raised his chin at him.

'Crossing is _closed_,' he sneered. Berwald was taller than him, and he could- he _would_ break him with his bare hands and the heat of his anger, welling up just beyond the numb disbelief, but even if he did, he couldn't break through the barrier of concrete and barbed wire running through the tunnel.

'Who did th's?' he snarled, taking a sick pleasure in stepping forward just enough to glare down at him. The guard shifted, hand jerking to his gun, and the two standing by the barrier snapped to attention.

'The state.' The safety of his gun clicked, his eyes not quite so flinty. 'Nobody is allowed to cross to the West anymore.'

'Th's barrier. Does it go the wh'le way around?'

'It surrounds all of West Berlin.' Something nearly regretful fluttered in his eyes. 'The Berlin Wall is up.'

_Tino_.

Berwald bared his teeth at him, his anger rushing and thick in his throat. He couldn't lose Tino, he couldn't lose the only good thing he'd had in this city.

'Let me go,' he growled. The guard's gun was up and the muzzle pressed to his chest, but he only moved closer.

'The border isn't open anymore,' he repeated, eyes wide enough to see the whites.

He didn't care. Tino was in the West, and he needed to be there. He couldn't accept that the future they'd promised was _lost_, and he didn't care what would happen to him to get back to his Finnish dancer. He saw more than heard the man warning him to get back, the blows he couldn't feel from the other guards, the panic in his eyes, the black barrel of his gun, all in slow motion. His heartbeat rang in his ears. Berwald looked him right in the eye and thought of seeing northern lights again, cold and hot and _ready_ for the blood.

Arms wrapped around him and dragged him back. Berwald roared, lashing out randomly, and the man shoved him against the wall and cuffed him soundly, making his head ring enough to snap him out of the daze.

'Don't be so fucking _stupid_,' Mathias shouted, eyes blazing, hair a mess. Berwald stared, too blurry to react as the Dane let go of him, every movement thick with disgust, and stalked away.

The people watched him with wide eyes. Berwald couldn't look at them. He turned around and went back to the prison cell of his editor's office and drank until he stopped thinking and the roar of the broken city in the distance sounded like the noise inside his head.

He woke up with a black eye and didn't know who it was from, but it didn't matter. He dragged himself to the mirror as usual and pressed a cold cloth to it, rivulets of water running down his face. His other eye glared back at him, but what startled him most was the look he had. He looked dangerous, snarling, torn up like the city.

He shouldn't be proud of it. He closed his eyes and switched the ragged towel for another, cooler one. The pain of the black eye was only a dull ache compared to the welling loss inside of him. It was only muscle memory that moved him through his space, full of dripping regret and unspoken words. He waited until the swelling had gone down enough to see and sat back at the table, tracing the wood grain, empty movements, empty head. His clothes and the air smelled like alcohol. He couldn't stand being there, not when it was tarnished with his silly, dreaming hopes. He left to find the roaring, to find the riot and rage Mathias loved.

The square was full of people, screaming and silent and crying out. Berwald pushed his way through the crowd, just one more person frantically looking beyond the Wall for a glimpse at what had been taken, and against all odds- it had always been against all their chances- he found him.

Tino locked eyes with him and the roaring and the guards drew back, leaving only them. Berwald drank in the sight of him, the exact purple shade of his eyes and the lines of his face. He was beautiful.

Tino's expression broke when he saw him. Berwald still wanted to give him everything, anything, drop to his knees and offer him the _world_. _I'm sorry_, he mouthed instead, hopeless in the face of it all.

Tino smiled, heartbreaking and gentle, and sang, voice clear even though the shouting.

'_I'll be a strong as a mountain, or weak as a willow tree_…'

Berwald found himself responding automatically, desperate for this one moment of connection. They sang the second verse together. Tino's eyes never left his.

'_Any way you want me, well, that's how I will be_.'

In that heartbeat where he could breathe again, Tino smiled, tears catching the morning light, whispering love across the barbed wire. They stayed as long as they could, until the guards surged forward again and shoved Berwald away. He never took his eyes off Tino.

As the crowd and the guards roared, inches away from conflict, Berwald dimly realized Gilbert had been right.

He traced the border of the split city later that night, drifting between the raging, hopeless crowds and the black lines of guns. There was nothing but wire and concrete and the hard faces of people turned on their own.

He ended up at Mathias' headquarters at the end. Nobody spoke as he sat down at the far table. There was an air of weary shock and resignation, too tired to rage against their losses. The huddled lump of spilling, matted blond hair and rough fabric stirred and Mathias sat up, eyes bloodshot. He was too drunk even to focus properly.

'Ber,' he said, the break in his voice revealing raw emotion. Berwald took the bottle out of his shaking, slack hands and set it aside. They didn't need to speak. They'd known each other long enough. He had bruises all over his face, which Berwald could only properly see now, and he was moving like he'd bruised a rib.

''Ts okay,' Berwald said, even though nothing was.

'I'm sorry for bruising your eye,' Mathias said. He shook his head. He'd deserved it.

'Don't w'rry.'

Mathias laughed, pain scrawling over his expressive face like lightning, and the look in his eyes flashed into _rage_; mad, terrifying rage.

'Berwald,' he said, voice half-singsong. His hands curled around a bottle that was no longer there. 'Did you know that _bastard, traitor, filthy turncoat_ Gilbert is still alive?'

'No,' Berwald said automatically, recoiling in horror. Mathias sat up, mouth twitching at the corner.

'He sold us out. He was a fucking _Stasi_ spy, Ber, oh my God.' His shoulders were shaking now with mock laughter, mouth working into a grimace, eyes unseeing. 'And he came back to- came to _warn_ us.'

Berwald could only think of their meeting in the old houses, and how if he'd only known, he would have left that night before.

'Y' didn't leave.'

''Course not.' He raked hands through his hair just a bit too hard. 'I'm going to kill him.'

They sat with only the sound of Mathias' ragged breathing and the clink of a new bottle in both their hands. Berwald knew better than to ask for what he'd been thinking about, and Mathias saw it in his eyes before he'd even opened his mouth. The mad rage vanished like clouds over a clear blue sky.

'Oh, God, your dancer. He's over in the West, isn't he?'

Berwald jerked his head and drank. The burn was familiar in his throat, and it forced the choked sound threatening to be voiced back into his chest.

'You can't…' Before he finished, he saw the regret in his friend's face. There was nothing they could do to help.

'I'm sorry, Berwald.' He thought better of laying a hand on his arm, and set it back on the table.

'Doesn't matt'r,' he muttered, even though it did, more than he could ever express. Mathias scraped his palms down his thighs, face pale.

'I can't let you stay in our deal,' he said. 'Tino is safe- safer than us, at least.'

'I w'nt to stay,' Berwald said stubbornly. The resistance was his last hope of something worthwhile, something that gave him the slightest chance to see the Wall collapse and find Tino again.

'No,' Mathias said firmly. 'I'm not letting anyone like you get killed on my account. You've got Tino. Just keep your head down. You'll see him again.'

Berwald glared at him, itching to fight, tear up his knuckles and be able to just stop _thinking_ for a while.

'I said I want t' fight,' he growled.

'And I said that I'm not so much of a _madman_ that I don't care about people getting killed!' Mathias shouted back, rising from his seat. His bloodshot eyes still couldn't focus and he staggered, hands spread against the bar to stop himself from crumpling. There was a heavy bruise of a handprint wrapped around his neck that slid in and out of sight as he wrapped his coat further around himself, eyes empty with too much pain for the alcohol to numb. 'Go home, Berwald.'

The bars hummed in frantic discontent, people whispering that the Americans would help, they had to help. Berwald knew better. He only went home after the jukebox turned to the Elvis song that he couldn't stand to hear.

0o0o0o

When the shouting woke him instead of a steady hand, Tino knew something was wrong. He grabbed the first jacket he could find and ran out into the crowds, blindly shoving his way through.

He wanted, needed to know where Berwald was in the fury, needed to see him rushing towards him, safe and good and beautiful, with his smudged glasses and the smile he didn't give anyone else. He dreamed of the exact shade of his eyes. Whatever was happening to Berlin, he could survive it as long as Berwald was with him. The crowds broke in the square and Tino saw why. He slowed to a stop, a great rising panic swelling inside of him until he couldn't breathe.

The guards across the barbed wire, with their Eastern uniforms and the hunger in their features, trained their guns on the crowd. Tino frantically scanned the crowd, fear crawling thick and hot up his throat until he found Berwald, his Berwald, bloody and desperate, simply standing as the crowd churned.

No. This couldn't happen. They'd had a promise, they'd had their plans and their love and Tino had been foolish enough to think it would be _enough_. He could read Berwald, all the emotion locked behind his eyes. They were the colour of the fjords back home, Tino had thought. The clearest blue.

He'd never get to show Berwald his northern lights.

He mouthed something, and Tino drank in the shape of his mouth, the way his body fell together in solid lines. _I'm sorry_, he was saying, and Tino gasped, tears brimming in his eyes. He needed a last connection, even if this was lost, and sang, all his apologies and hopeless, hoping promises.

He'd never heard Berwald sing before, but it was gentle and lilting and heartbreakingly lovely. The guards shouted and began to push him back. Tino held their gazes until he was gone.

It would have been easier if he'd lost the ability to see instead. Tino felt empty, raw, hollow. He wanted to scream and lunge for the barrier and tear it open, run across to find his Berwald. He didn't, but he would get Berwald back in some way, he _swore_ it.

He staggered away from the square and gazed up at the moon.

Two hours and too much vodka later, Tino huddled in the dull, grey concrete holding area of the checkpoint among dozens of other people. He could tell some had barely made it across the border before it had closed, still clutching ragged bundles of belongings and crooning softly to crying children.

The border loomed among their thoughts and motions. The _Berlin Wall_, he'd heard, whispered behind hands and between choked breaths, like to name it would be to accept that this was not a mistake. Tino refused to think of that. Berwald couldn't be gone. Not yet.

The line shuffled forward and a guard brusquely motioned him in. His eyes were hard and his jaw was set.

'Someone I know is over there,' Tino said, digging nails into his palms to stop his voice shaking. He held out the folder of half-forged documents. 'I have papers prepared that would allow him to come stay with me. It's for...a business opportunity.'

The guard's radio crackled and he spoke roughly into it, dark eyes narrowing in exhaustion.

'We can't do anything unless the Americans act. Otherwise, it may be a war,' he said in a rough burr. He pressed his lips together. He wasn't as old as Tino had originally thought, younger perhaps than him, barely twenty and with the local accent. 'I'm sorry.'

The Americans wouldn't act. Tino swallowed back the lump in his throat and nodded.

'Thank you,' he whispered, and left before the tears prickling his eyes could fall.

Berwald, who had changed everything, who was gentle and giggled when he laughed and wanted to be a writer. Tino missed him like something vital torn out.

He would save Berwald if it cost him everything.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Clear cold water right before the dawn _**


	8. Chapter 8

Tino pulled the wool coat further around himself and knocked on the scratched door again. Finally, the lock undid and his friend peered out, looking sleepless and pinched with anxiety.

'Oh, it's just you,' he said in relief. His knuckles were raw red from where he'd been worrying at them.

'Eduard, I need your help.'

He nodded and ushered him in, casting a last apprehensive glance out into the street behind him. Tino sat down on the couch, accepting the tea he was handed, but he had no interest in drinking it. Tension was knotted up through his chest and all along his shoulders, enough to hurt.

'What do you need?' Eduard asked, sitting down across from him.

'There's someone in the East I need to save.' Before he even finished the sentence, he saw his friend's eyes drop away. He leaned forward across the table. 'Eduard, please. You know people who control the border. I need to get him back.'

'Tino…' He looked up, fear evident in his face.

He cut him off, regretting the harsh tone in his voice. 'You owe me this, Eduard. You know that.'

He pressed his lips together and dropped his head. 'I know. I've been trying to get more people over here- like you did for me, I remember that, okay? But it was getting harder, and now the Americans aren't helping us, and...Tino, I'm sorry. I'll try everything I can, but I can't promise anything.'

He dropped the attempt, feeling frustrated and useless. 'I understand.'

'Who is it?'

'His name is Berwald Oxenstierna.' He blinked into the quiet light of Eduard's room. 'He's an editor. He wants to be a writer.' And he had eyes like mountain ice and gentle hands and Tino already missed him so much.

'I'll do my best,' Eduard pledged. Tino set down his still-full mug of tea and said his goodbyes.

He went back to the dance club. His troop was all gone or in the East, but they still let him in to work. The lights weren't quite as bright or brilliant without Berwald.

0o0o0o

East Berlin hummed with fury and discontent and Berwald drifted among it all, waiting for better news that would never come. The Americans did nothing, and the Wall grew up in a thorny tangle of concrete and barbed wire that choked the West.

Berwald read about the first jumper in the paper before he cut it away, holding the precious telegram in his hands, wishing, _wishing_ he knew how to be brave enough to go the same way, and knowing he couldn't, in case he failed. He wouldn't do that to Tino. He heard about the first one who didn't make it, and all the ones after, from so many people with haunted eyes and fearful voices as they spoke of how the boy (just a _boy_) had crumpled under the bullets and the guards carried him away.

Some days Berwald came close, dangerously close to thinking he could do it, enough that the barbed wire started looking like salvation with the taste of copper in his mouth. He always turned back home before he could start running for it.

Berlin settled itself back into as close to the life before as they could. The Wall became part of the city, and the city had become some small part of Berwald, too. He would admit he was impressed with how fast the people recovered from it, how easily the hulking concrete monolith became one more subject for their jokes. It was just _Berliner Schnauze_, Berwald supposed.

He couldn't adjust as fast. He tried, tried to hold all of his memories of Tino and the West close, but that only made him wake up more aware of how quiet and lonely his office was. He picked up pieces of the broken city and tried to fit them to the lonely space inside, tried drinking with the ragged workers and smoking himself to sleep when the music only made him hurt. Sometimes he pried up the floorboard and tried to work his letters to Tino into something useable, but they still spilled out in jumbled messes of ink and longing and he tore them up.

He couldn't listen to their song anymore.

Life trudged on like the best of their war songs. He saw Mathias some days, only long enough to hand over the cut transcripts and request more cigarettes. He realized one day, looking into the mirror and trying to shave away his scruffy beard with an old, dull, rationed razor blade, that he'd only gone back to how it had been before Tino. It felt a lot lonelier than he'd remembered. His bad hip ached again like it hadn't for years.

He buried himself back in his hated work rather than think of the grey that surrounded him, a dull pounding in his head. He'd almost forgotten about Ivan- always a dangerous thing to do.

When the colonel knocked at his door, he let him in. He had stopped being angry, or hurt, or anything. Tino was safe, and he was nothing but an empty echoing conduit for the future. Ivan studied him for a long, long time, and he must have seen the change in his eyes.

'You remember our deal.'

'Yes,' Berwald heard himself say. His voice was low and dark from too many weeks of disuse.

'The country needs you now,' he said simply.

Berwald followed him down twisting streets and wondered that if he'd agreed to be a soldier instead of leaving to Berlin, the haven with no military service, he would be in a safer situation. There was not much use wondering.

They stopped outside the _Roman_. Ivan unlocked the door and motioned for him to sit down inside. Berwald toyed with a pen in his pocket until the man, Romano, came downstairs. He knew all too well the flash of terror in his eyes, and though it was harsh comfort, he adjusted to let him sit down further away as they negotiated. He couldn't bring himself to listen to the soft words the Stasi excelled so much in, their insidious _Zersetzung_.

The strains of _Any Way You Want Me_ began to drift through his head, and for the first time since the Wall Berwald welcomed them. It took his mind off the stilted conversation, and he let himself dream of northern lights and nod when he should, drink when he was told.

The colonel led the man away and Berwald sunk down against the bar, exhaling a ragged breath. He was impossibly tired, dusty and dirty and with all his righteous fury faded down to ashes.

He wedged the door shut when he left and had another cigarette in the alley outside. His pack was more than half-empty by now, even though he thought he'd gotten a new one recently.

He went back to the bar after that, just to buy himself new packs, never looking Romano in the eye. It was worth it, in the breaks between the days, because when the Western soldiers strolled in the whole place woke up, grinning that finally _they_ weren't the people with the biggest targets on their backs.

The loud one was American, he could tell by the accent and the fact he ordered bourbon. The other- he couldn't quite tell, he didn't think the English were fond of American soldiers, but he knew the way he _looked_ at his American with a sharp, painful, perfect longing. Berwald busied himself with his drink again, far too aware as the man sat down next to him, some part of him hungering to ask, to have that connection. It would be foolish to, so he didn't.

The American snapped around the dusty bar like a strobe of lightning, complaining about the lack of music before he jumped up on the nearest stool and scanned the crowd. Berwald could not _believe_ what was going on.

'Who has requests?' he shouted. 'Come on, there's no way nobody here likes music. You, with the blue coat, next to my friend. What do you want?'

For some reason, Berwald let himself smile. 'Elvis,' he said. And the American winked at the soldier sitting next to Berwald, dusted off his uniform, kicked his leg up on the chair, and started _singing_.

'_It's now or never, come hold me tight, kiss me, my darling, be mine tonight…'_

He heard the other soldier whisper _dear Lord_ under his breath. Berwald did not blame him in the slightest.

He didn't know why he started following the lyrics, or why the bar of haggard construction workers and guards raised their voices alongside him and the boy, or why he finally felt light again as their American led them through it like an anthem. It was a forbidden song, a Western song, and that taste of freedom felt so sweet.

They all applauded him when he was done, and Berwald joined in with a passion. He bowed to them all and bounded back to his friend, still grinning and delighted with himself until they left. _Impressive_ did not half cover it.

He went to find Mathias. The bar was lit only by candlelight, and Mathias was hunched over a list of supplies, tongue poking out of his mouth as he scribbled.

'Let m' join,' Berwald said. That slight rebellion in the _Roman_ had woken him back up, and he craved it now. He understood why Mathias acted as he did.

'I told you no,' Mathias reminded him, rolling the list back up. 'Too dangerous. You don't have any obligations to us.'

'One t'me,' Berwald insisted. 'I owe y' one, at least.'

Mathias sighed, but his blue eyes lit up sparkling. 'Well, never say I haven't done anything for you,' he said, groaning as he stood up and stretched the tension from his back. 'And God, I could really use your muscle. I've got a job I've been meaning to do, low risk. How good are you at lockpicking?'

'All I need 's a hammer.'

'_That's_ my Ber.' He laughed, clapped him on the back and stuffed a crumpled list of instructions into his hand. 'Seriously, now, what's gotten into you?'

'Feelin' better,' Berwald said with a hint of mischief.

'Are you? Because I've heard you've been around the Roman, and…' His gaze dropped to the pack of cigarettes poking out of his pocket. Berwald brushed him away. It was too close to the truth.

''M tryin' to quit. Don't worry.'

He wasn't, but Mathias' expression lightened again, and he left him at that.

The job was easy enough- break into a storehouse and destroy as many files as he could. Mathias' scribbled notes plotted out where he should enter and exit, the changing of the guards, and..._other_ tips. Berwald squinted at the last of the paper's atrocious handwriting, which he was fairly sure advised him to _fuck those Reds up_.

Mathias knew him well enough to have given him this job. Berwald felt like he was freeing people like Romano as he shredded the folders he could and tucked those he couldn't into his 'disguise', really just a tacky fur-collared coat- to be burned.

It was his own fault he got carried away, working methodically through the boxes of lives and hiding the destroyed papers as best he could. He must have been making too much noise, because harsh flashlights cut through the gloom and someone barked an order in Russian. A gun clicked. Berwald froze with a hand on the handle of his hammer, testing the heft in his hand. The guard drew closer, and he stepped back into the shadows, heart thudding, cursing himself for being so overeager and foolish. A memory of his night with Tino flashed through his mind, and he bared his teeth, heat rushing through his chest and limbs, clinging to this awareness and fight with every scrap of himself. He would not slip back into the grey. He would find a way back to Tino.

He would _not_ die here in the cold concrete East.

The guard spotted his work with the files and shouted again in Russian, louder. As soon as he rounded the corner Berwald was hidden behind, he leapt forward and swung the hammer with a roar, for a split, ridiculous second imagining himself if he had been a soldier. The guard screamed in terror and tried to lift his gun, but Berwald batted it away with one hand. The report of the round going off against the ground, inches from his feet, echoed in the metal room.

The hammer connected with his collarbone with a sickening sound and the gun clattered to the ground, the man's arm hanging useless. He backed up and crumpled against a crate, his good arm braced in front of his face, cringing away from him. Berwald couldn't understand much of his Russian, but he knew the tone- the frantic, utterly terrified tone of a man pleading for his life. He hesitated. He should kill the man. The guards like this were the ones who'd shot people trying to cross. These were the Reds who'd built the Berlin Wall. His grip tightened on the hammer. _Tino_.

_You're kind_, Tino had told him. _And brave_. This was none of that. Killing a man who could not fight back was nothing but cowardice.

He dropped his hammer to his side, feeling dirty and sick. He picked up the man's gun instead, loathing for himself roiling in his stomach at the way the man's eyes went wide and he shrunk away, whispering brokenly. Berwald stared down at him and in a rush of realization saw the movements of the cross across his chest. The man was praying.

'Close y'r eyes,' he said through the lump in his throat in the best Russian he could do. The man's glassy eyes focused for a second on his face, and then the tension rushed out of him and he closed his eyes, tilting his head up for the shot.

Berwald unloaded the gun, dropping the clip to the ground with an obvious rattle. Only then did he swing the butt of the gun cleanly against the man's temple. He sagged down against the boxes of files. Berwald wondered if he had his own file here, if his family did.

He carried the gun and ammunition clip outside, staring out at the city, glowing in the dusk. Rage and sickness tangled in his throat, and with a choked, horrified scream, he hauled the gun over his head and brought it crashing down on an exposed piece of concrete, over and over and over until all his emotion had fled and he was crouched in the shattering city, head braced between his knees as he dry heaved, frantic to rid himself of the reek of corruption and desperation. The gun was a mangled mess in his hands, worthless as a weapon in the same way he was. He straightened up and hurled the clip against the building, watching the pieces shatter in the dirt.

He went drinking again that night, throwing up the sour alcohol in back alleys without ever being able to purge the memories from his head, and smoked until he stopped thinking of the man's naked terror.

The resistance wasn't the thrill of forbidden things and fire in your mouth. Not now. It was bitter humanity and finding out how far you'd go. It tore the kindness out of people, and the only ones who survived were those with nothing left to lose.

Mathias could rest assured that Berwald wouldn't join him again. He went back to his work, hollow and haunted, working his dirty jobs for the Stasi and Ivan when he needed. He should have known better than try to join that world. He never could change properly, even when Tino had changed him so much in so many ways.

Mathias came to find him again. He looked unsteady and the usual light in his eyes was that much sharper and wild. Berwald agreed to go with him because his head was pounding and he needed more _Belomorkanal_ smokes. Because Mathias had said '_He's_ important' and he had to know.

The bar Mathias chose was noisy and crowded. Berwald let him talk himself into a fury, his love for his Lukas evident in every word. He knew he sounded that way about Tino.

When the Western soldier interrupted, his first instinct was to ready for a fight, but there was something that made him sit back. For the first time since he wall, trusting someone ended up being a better idea. As the Australian soldier talked to Mathias, he examined him, and suddenly he had to interrupt.

'You're fr'm the West.' He knew he sounded desperate. He was.

'We can't take people over. The guards check. We've tried.' He looked truly apologetic, and like the kind of person who would try such a thing. 'We're sorry.'

'I don't want to go. There's some'ne, a man there. His n'me is Tino.'

He saw Mathias turn away beside him, but he ignored it, focusing on this hint of hope.

'Is he yours?'

'Yours?' Berwald asked warily.

'You know what I mean.'

He studied him, too awake with the crowded bar all around them, before sharply nodding. He relaxed, a warmth kindling in his dark green eyes.

'I'm Jett,' he said.

'Berwald.'

Jett smiled wider, squeezing his hand. 'I'll take him something. A message, or-'

'Music.' Too many memories of Tino guiding him around the kitchen, of that night they met, clamoured in his mind, but he pushed them away, determined to focus.

'Music?' Jett frowned. 'He can get music there that's better than any stuff here.'

'He'll underst'nd.' He'd know what it meant, that record for them together. Berwald only wanted him to be happy, and he would let him go the best way he knew how. He couldn't bear any more false hopes.

'If you're sure. I'll be here for another hour. I don't think I can come back, though, there's been trouble with the border recently.'

'We know,' Mathias interrupted.

Berwald's headache was reaching a splitting point. God, he felt so close yet so far from Tino and freedom. He could only glance at Mathias before he pushed his way outside and lit another cigarette, crushing the cardboard in his fingers, breathing in the harsh smoke and trying to think at all. He heard Mathias beside him, and his nearly cautious question.

'I want him,' he said into the night, hurting all over.

'I know.'

His hands felt thick with blood, just the possibility of blood. Did he even deserve Tino, after what he'd done?

The smoke suddenly felt thick and choking in his throat, and he hurled it away, disgusted with all the trappings of this split-city life. It glowed like a morning star in the dark.

'I hate it,' Berwald hissed again, venomous and gasping.

'I'm sorry,' Mathias said, uncharacteristically gentle. He was a fighter down to the core, but he still felt like someone Berwald should take care of. He could see the tendons in his wrist showing that he had forgotten to eat again.

'You can't come by anym're,' Berwald said, turning away from his childishly concerned face. 'They'll find you.'

'Ber, don't be ridiculous. I'm Mathias. Mathias fucking Køhler. They'll never beat me.'

Berwald wondered for a half second that if it had been Mathias facing down that man, if it would have gone the same way. He didn't want to think about it, or Mathias' fierce, single-mindedly righteous brutality. He wouldn't have hesitated, if he thought it would hurt the Stasi.

'The colonel,' he muttered. Mathias just laughed, carefree and with an edge of teeth.

'Go home, Ber. And then get your music and do what you need. I'm fixing everything.'

He left Berwald in the empty parking lot, vacant of cars. He stood there and watched the cherry-red end of his cigarette gutter out into nothing.

He went home and picked up the record, penning a last note inside the cardboard cover. Tino had said it was for him, until they were back together, but Berwald couldn't give him that hope any longer.

Some day, maybe. But not now. Not yet.

Jett was waiting for him at the bar, slumped over beside his New Zealander, and turned the record over in his hands with a practiced touch.

'This is Western,' he noted softly. Berwald nodded in affirmation.

'It's f'r Tino Väinämöinen,' he said, holding all his emotions back just behind his teeth. 'He's a dancer.' And he deserved so much more than Berwald could give.

'We'll get it to him,' Jett promised, and Berwald felt a weight lift away.

'One m're thing,' he added, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, the cardboard slightly crumpled from where he'd added all the extras that he'd found around his office space. Jett shook his head.

'I don't need payment.'

'For me.' He placed them in his palm and curled his fingers around it. 'Give 't to someone.'

Jett's eyes went to the circular burns on his fingers and he swallowed and nodded.

'Me and Kiwi both wish you the best, Berwald,' he said honestly. Berwald smiled slightly and saluted.

'Good luck.'

He watched them go, and then walked back outside, away from smoky bars and heavy thoughts to breathe in the cold clear air and watch for stars.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: A 'goodnight' that takes forever_**


	9. Chapter 9

The doorbell rang one day, in the bluer morning. Tino was laying on his bed, heavy as lead, drained empty. It was too hard to move, even when the sunlight slanted down his chest and in the corner of his eyes. The doorbell rang again, and after a moment, he finally swung his legs out and made his way to the door. He could feel that his hair was a mess.

He fumbled the door open.

'Eduard, listen,' he started, a ready excuse on his lips for all the weight and grey that had settled deeper and deeper into him. Someone held up a hand to stop him.

'Are you Tino Väinämöinen? A dancer?'

'Yes,' he said warily.

'Can we talk to you for a while?' he asked. His accent was unfamiliar. Tino looked behind the man to see another soldier in the same British uniform. He nodded numbly and opened the door wider.

They sat down on the couch together. Tino looked at them and thought of how Berwald had touched him there, how they'd slept in each others' arms. He turned his back and poured drinks with steady hands and shaking breath.

'What warrants a visit from the British troops?' he asked lightly. The taller man glanced down at his clothes.

'This isn't- it's not a military visit. We're army, but that's not the point.'

His companion held out a flat cardboard square, eyes solemn. Tino took it, suddenly, desperately cold. _Any Way You Want Me_.

'Berwald,' he murmured, a raw, involuntary gasp of a name. They sat back and let him have the moment of too much and not enough. He knew. He knew what this meant.

'He sent us with that for you.' The man leaned forth and then appeared to reconsider, brow furrowing over the words, offering the question slowly. 'Did you know him well?'

'I know him,' Tino said simply. He knew every fold in the cardboard, knew every way Berwald looked, the curves of his face, the hollows of his cheeks, the scar on his hip, the softness in his eyes. 'And he knows me.'

When he raised his eyes, the two soldiers were gazing at him with odd expressions, a strangely easy energy twining between them.

'He loves you,' the smaller man said. 'He's doing his best. You could see it.'

Imagining Berwald waiting for him made his chest ache again. 'Could you...could you go back again?'

They shook their heads. 'The border is getting harsher. We can't take people, either. The guards strip down the car when we drive in and out.'

Tino sat back, his brief hope fading. 'I understand.'

They left with a backwards glance, handshakes lingering. Tino found a brief connection in their eyes, like calling to like, before they had to go again. It was strange, it was a brief wonderfulness how people like them existed in kind. A memory for better things.

Tino slid the record from its cardboard, hands trembling slightly, and slid it into place. The music crackled out, but this time nobody's hands were twined with his, nobody's hip smooth and rough under his palm, no eyes gazing into his. Tino huddled on the couch and closed his eyes and knew that this record meant Berwald thought it would never happen again. It was a gentle farewell, a way to let him go.

Tino couldn't. He couldn't let Berwald go from where he'd found his way into his heart, where he'd already fallen too much and too far for everything about him. Berwald couldn't just _let go_ that way. He wouldn't let this be the end.

He fiddled with the cardboard as he thought, helpless with anger, fingers digging into the worn edges until the battered corner ripped. Tino bit back another cry of frustration, but as he tried to stick the pieces back together, he saw ink.

He carefully peeled away the corner and heard a tearing of tape as the whole cover folded open. On the inside of the box was a letter in cramped writing.

_Dear Tino,_

_I'm sending this with Jett. I hope he'll be able to find you. _

_It's a terrible thing to say, but I want you to be with me. Forgive me for it? I want you to be safe, but I miss you, in a way I have never missed anyone before. Promise me nothing will come of this. Please stay safe._

_I want to see you, I want to show you things that aren't this hellish concrete tangle, I want to give you the world. I want to give you that future we once spoke about, some safe domestic life far away from here. I want to give you a library of gold and write a thousand books on love to fill it. _

_Maybe if the Wall comes down I will see you again, and I can do some of those things. As for now, I miss you, and I hope you will do well. I'm sure you will. _

_My dearest Tino: I'm sorry I couldn't make it back to you. Live well. Think of me when you listen to our song. _

_You're the most beautiful person I've ever met. _

_Yours, always_

_Berwald_

Tino's eyes stung, wetness gathering in his eyelashes. He pressed his forehead to the neat lettering, gasping for breath and whispering all his promises back in a letter that would forever go unsent.

Berwald. His lovely, loving, gentle Berwald, who asked for nothing but a better future. The ink smudged under his tear-damp thumb, feathering the curl of _always_ into a blue galaxy.

0o0o0o

Berwald hoped Tino had found his letter. He had wanted to write so much more; he could have written a book, a library on the study of Tino. That would be something he'd gladly devote his years to, instead of oiling the gears of a war machine. The shrapnel in his hip was enough war for a lifetime. Every time he met Tino, it had been more brightness and love than he'd known could exist in a lifetime.

When Ivan called for him again, Berwald obeyed the meaningless tasks and intimidations, his heart safely behind all those feet of concrete, Tino's to keep or break. He'd said his goodbye and drifted with that, almost at peace, and when Ivan broke that peace, it felt like being shaken awake.

'Are you adjusting to the Berlin Wall, Berwald?'

'Is that the n'me now?' he asked. It left just one more scar down the stuttering heart of the city. He supposed one more mark couldn't hurt Berlin, not after everything else. It was a fitting new symbol for a war city.

'Are you?' Ivan pressed. His hands danced across the rim of his glass, eyes seemingly far away.

'Yes.'

He wasn't called back to service for weeks, until one day Ivan arrived with a uniform in a bag. Berwald looked down at it and his stomach twisted over, remembering, _remembering_. He had done everything he could to stop remembering- the smoking or the blankness or the pain of loss. Saying goodbye and locking that piece of him away again was the only way to stop himself from running up to the guards and the guns and the chained dogs and scaling the Wall just for a chance to be with Tino. He couldn't keep remembering, or he would have to remember just how deep his love still ran and pain of losing the other half of that the same way.

Ivan's voice dragged him halfway back to the present, muffled and oddly nearby with the rest of the world hushed in his paper-filled rooms. Berwald stared out into the sheaves of dark and bright parchments.

'I need your assistance at the prison,' Ivan's voice commanded. Berwald stared straight ahead, chest breaking slowly, slowly, and nodded.

Staring into the mirror after the colonel was gone, he felt his past slip just that bit further away. It felt a lifetime ago that the Turk had told him to wear a fake coat almost exactly like this, a million years since he'd met a dancer and fallen for him over and over, that he still did even now. He raised the sleeve, noticing the padding, and then dropped it again. He still couldn't recognize his reflection.

He found an old towel to cover his cracked mirror with until he needed it. It was easier than way. Even in the morning, trying to clean away the nicks from shaving, he couldn't meet his own eyes, too scared of how much love he'd see there.

The only good thing about the prison was the resistance.

Berwald silently entered the headquarters after work one day, looking around until he spotted Mathias chewing on his pencil and working numbers by the counter. When Mathias greeted him enthusiastically, Berwald's gaze settled on the vodka on the counter and only with an effort could he look away, sicker than before.

'What's the news?' Mathias asked, reaching for another bottle. Berwald waved it away, a pang going through him.

''M a guard now.'

'At the Wall?'

Despite everything about the current situation, Berwald smiled, satisfied. 'At the prison.'

Mathias' eyes lit up and he burst out of his chair, shouting for someone. People hurried to him, and he _beamed_.

'Ber, you're gonna be a hero,' he breathed. Berwald sat down and watched him spin a plan like starlight nets and constellations, eyes flashing back and forth in response to some idea only he could harness.

Berwald sat at the bar, two seats down from the vodka, picking at the sleeve of his old coat, familiar and blue. He wondered how it was that no matter what he did or didn't do, the loss of Tino still stung in every moment. He wondered why he savoured every moment that still reminded him of those lovely eyes, and already knew the answer: Berwald still loved Tino to the point of every distraction, and no goodbye could take that away.

Mathias laughed and shouted and Berwald waited until he was atop the stacked boxes and declaring the future as theirs to slip away again and lay at home in his bed of twisted blankets and memory and not think.

Mathias came calling again to describe to him a plan. He settled himself on the couch, flipping through the newspapers.

'You ready to live as a hero?' he asked with a grin. Berwald didn't feel heroic, but he agreed regardless. He felt _homesick_ for Tino and the future and safety and other impossible and wonderful things.

'Are y' going to break in?' he asked with only a hint of sarcasm. He was afraid they truly would.

'Don't be ridiculous,' Mathias scoffed. 'That would be a death sentence. They'd have to be worth everything.'

Berwald caught the dullness in his eyes. 'Is there s'meone?'

'Yeah. We think there is.' Mathias pressed his lips together. 'Feliks. He was a good kid, but Gilbert- _dirty murdering bastard_\- sold him out.'

'Feliks?' Berwald asked urgently, feeling sick. 'Short, good 't fashion, blond?'

Mathias squinted, eyes crinkling with a hint of sadness. 'Yeah. He was good at knitting, too. And sharp with a gun. Did you know him?'

In a way, Berwald had, even though it was a meeting so brief it was barely noted. He didn't know Feliks, but he knew what would have been done to him at the hands of the Stasi. He knew, nauseatingly, how if just a few things were different, it could have been him or Tino.

'No,' he said wearily. He let Mathias fill the echoing space of implication with his brilliant madman plans, listening without being able to look him in the eye.

0o0o0o

He paced the prison halls and waited for the message to change guards. None of the other guards would even look him in the eye. Berwald felt invisible, a ghost of a different time. He would have welcomed an argument or look of hatred.

He passed the other guard and settled into his post just outside the steel doors, breathing in the acrid tang of the city, the gun in his hands still unfamiliar and heavy. He caught the flicker of movement through the buildings as people emerged. All he could see of them were bright eyes over their scarves. The leader paused at the edge of the street, weighing him. Berwald set down his gun and called out.

''M with Kalmar,' he declared, hands open and palms up.

They nodded. Paintbrushes and spray cans were pulled from pockets. Berwald loosely swung his gun onto his back and began his circuit around the prison, the knot of fearful tension inside of him releasing somewhat at the bright resistance going on behind him.

The Stasi would have his head for it if they ever caught them, but he didn't mind. Tino was safe and away from him, and that was all that could possibly matter anymore.

**0o0o0o**

_**:: Houses you can step between to sneak away**_


	10. Chapter 10

Tino ended up at the club again. It wasn't the same, but for moments there he could imagine that Berwald would walk in the door again and smile, and everything would be okay again.

People in the club drank and stared at each other and the painted walls, eyes wide and glassy.

'The Americans,' Tino had heard in the beginning, again and again, '-the Americans will do something, they wouldn't let the Soviets do this, they _wouldn't_.'

But now it was quiet in the clubs, in the early morning, everyone listening to the fractured fearful snarl of the East. The Americans _had_ to do something, but they wouldn't. Tino nursed a drink and watched the American commanders hurry down the street through the window, talking and talking, always only talking- glancing behind themselves, tucking their coats further around themselves as they walked faster. Tino toyed with the mad idea of rushing out to them and demanding they went to the East and _fixed_ the break in the city, that they brought back a should-be writer with eyes the colour of the fjords.

'Tino.'

Tino startled, hands curling into fists before he recognized the voice of the Turkish man who ran the club.

'Sorry, I've just been a little...out of sorts.'

'The whole goddamn world is _out of sorts_,' he scoffed. It was usually hard to tell what he was feeling behind the mask, but his eyes glinted out, full of a harsh fury. 'And we do our best to live again.'

'Yeah,' Tino agreed. He threw back the rest of his glass and relished the harsh burn of it, in the ability to say vicious things. 'Fuck the Wall.'

The man laughed, the sound hard and fierce. 'I'll be glad once this city tears it down.'

They sat in companionable silence. The Turk handed Tino another bottle, waving away his concerns about paying for it.

'I have more things to worry about than an excellent performer getting an extra beer,' he said dismissively. Tino appreciated it. It soothed some of the ache inside as he looked outside and saw the last stars melting away. These times, where the stars faded in and out of light, where the edges of everything blurred softer, was a gentle time. A time for him and Berwald together.

'The world shouldn't look like this right now,' he said. The man across him raised his head and looked out at the rainwater-soft dawn, painting the world dove grey and blue.

'It's too much right now?' he asked. Tino nodded. 'Who knows, maybe we'll treasure this again sometime. But not yet.' He huffed softly. 'It's been years and I still can't enjoy things how I used to.'

'Enjoy what?'

'Poetry.' The Turk traced his finger around the mouth of his empty bottle. 'It's a longer story than tonight needs.'

'I have time,' Tino said. The Turk considered him for a moment before shaking his head.

'I can tell you another night. It...it will be good to say it to someone.' He motioned to him. 'What about you? If you're sitting in my club like this, you must have a story.'

'Do you remember the guards you brought in? With the fake Red Army uniforms.'

'I hated those.'

'Do you remember Berwald?' Tino took another drink, looking outside again. 'Beautiful eyes, glasses, tall. He's an editor. I think he should have been a writer.'

'He's in the East now?' the man asked gently. Tino breathed out, holding onto the last time he'd seen him, the last letter, a _goodbye_ he was unwilling to accept.

'I'm going to be with him again.' Tino raised his chin at the outside, at the stars and the American commanders and the Wall, challenging their right at his heart. He'd chosen to give it to Berwald.

'You're damn brave.' The Turk tilted his head at the street outside. 'That's what we need.'

'That's what Berwald needs,' Tino agreed.

They were the only two people left in the club now. Tino didn't want to go back home to the bed that was half empty and the rooms that were full of only him. He curled his hands tighter around the bottle, wondering how much longer he would have to exist in half until this would all be over, until Berwald was with him.

'Are you going home?'

'I will,' he said, slightly embarrassed. 'You probably want to sleep.'

'Not really. I remember too much then.' The Turk folded his arms in front of him. 'If you don't want to go home right now, do you feel like you'd like to work here? I need someone's help at bartending.'

Tino nearly dropped his drink. 'Are you serious?'

'Why wouldn't I be?'

'Well…' Tino hesitated. He needed a job, now that most of his dance partners were gone, but he'd had enough bad encounters already. It was better to be upfront. He subtly prepared for a fight. 'You've seen me with my dance troop. And with Berwald.'

'Are you asking if I won't hire you because you seem like you've taken a liking to my guard?' the man asked bluntly.

'Maybe,' Tino answered weakly, the fight thoroughly knocked out of him.

'It's Berlin. There's a reason we're here, isn't there?' The man held out his hand, light brown eyes sparkling behind his mask. 'There is for me.'

Shocked, Tino took his hand and shook.

'Thank you.' He meant it for more than the job. He wasn't young, but this man was a different generation, a different time, and living proof that people like them had existed.

'You can call me Sadik,' he invited with a smile. 'Your first shift is tomorrow, nine PM. How are you at mixing drinks?'

'I'm good.'

'I'll see you, then.' Sadik stood up and briskly collected their drinks, carrying them away. Tino stood up.

'Sadik. Thank you. Really.'

He stopped and inclined his head. 'Thank _you_. It's good to remember that love away from war does exist.'

0o0o0o

Working in Sadik's club took his mind away from the Wall. It woke him up out of the haze. Even though he'd known there was no way to help Berwald, the helplessness had hurt.

He was cleaning off some glasses and chatting with Carlos, one of the guards for the performers. There was the girl tonight, Lili, _Vogel_, with the sweet clear voice. Carlos was keeping an eye on the people in front of the stage, despite being off duty at the time. The woman currently guarding was a force to be reckoned with.

'Tino,' Carlos interrupted, tapping on the counter.

'If this about washing your own glass again, I told you, this is what I'm getting paid for.'

'No, it's about your dance troop.'

Tino set down the glass he was cleaning, remembering all too clearly how they'd all been together once, hoping artists in a city made for them.

'It's okay,' he said, noticing the furrow in Carlos' brow. 'I was one of the lucky ones, I think.'

'What were the others like?' he asked. 'You were one of the best acts we had.'

'Emil lived in the East with his brother. I just hope he's safe. He was a good kid.' He pressed his lips together. 'Feliks went missing before the Wall came up. He was from the East too, and he was always going on about this thing he had over there, something powerful, something I knew better than to ask more about. He always talked about this man he knew, too. He called him Liet.' Tino smiled slightly at the memory of Feliks waving the photo of a man with long brown hair at him, his face and hands streaked with green paint and oil, worry-lined expression finally unfolded in a smile. 'Some tank mechanic this Soviet colonel had picked up from Lithuania.'

'What about the other one? The boy with the long hair?'

'Leon?' Tino frowned. 'He's still here, you can ask him. He's Yao's little brother, and Yao lives here, doesn't he?'

Carlos looked away. 'Leon ran away the night the Wall came up. I thought you knew.'

Tino's stomach dropped. He knew Yao distantly from when the dance troop had been active, and he'd always been intense. He'd barely been doing anything but working as long as Tino had been at the bar, and the very thought of a family being split that way...

'No, I didn't.' He barely dared to think it.

'I'm sorry.'

'No, it's my fault. I had no idea.' Tino went back to cleaning glasses, hands shaking slightly. They'd just celebrated Leon's nineteenth birthday a few short months ago…

'Yao says he's okay,' Carlos said, placing a hand on his arm.

'How does he know?'

'He sent a letter. Leon met up with this group, and their whole aim is to make life hell for the Soviets. They smuggled his letter over.'

'He's a child!' Tino exclaimed furiously. A fiery child, with a bright future, better suited to a world far away from theirs.

'I know.' Carlos sighed and sat back, staring out at the crowd. 'But he loves them, Yao told me. They're all he's got over there.'

Tino plunged his hands back into the water, hissing at the cold shock. He wanted to tear down the Wall with nothing but his bare hands.

Lili's song was over, and she bowed to the thunderous applause. Carlos rose to go back to his spot.

'I'm sorry,' he said.

'Don't waste your apologies on me,' Tino answered.

He found Yao after his shift was done, cooking, with a half-formed idea. The man had a strangely ageless face, but his eyes were hard and remorseless as beaten copper.

'Yao?' he asked, moving closer. Yao jerked his head at a spot beside him, never ceasing his fluid motions in cooking.

'I heard you talking with the guard,' he said, tipping potatoes into a small fryer. 'Do you have any questions?'

'I'm sorry.'

Yao paused for only a moment before he continued, but his eyes were slightly softer.

'I appreciate that. Wang Jia Long is a foolish child, but he is brave. I hope that will be enough.' He suddenly slashed through a head of lettuce. 'I wish it was me over there instead. The Stasi would never take me.'

'If anyone could, I think you would survive them,' Tino half-joked. Yao shook his head, cutting vegetables with harsh movements.

'What matters more is that I know someone of influence over there.' He shook his head, throwing his ponytail over his shoulder. It revealed a curling gold earring in the shape of a dragon, looping all the way around his ear. 'I hear they call him the _Bear_ now. I knew him as my tiger, of course, but it does not matter. I left it all behind.'

'Carlos said he was with a group of people over there who smuggled a letter to you, and I was wondering if-'

Yao sighed and set down his knives, holding up a hand to quiet him.

'Tino,' he said, with a surprising note of gentleness among the steel. 'The people Wang Jia Long has joined with are revolutionaries. They are a resistance unit determined to take down the Stasi.' His eyes gleamed burnished gold, and his earring glinted. 'He is with them because he has nobody else.'

'Please,' Tino persisted. 'I need someone over there. Berwald Oxenstierna, he's an editor. I need to know that he's safe, and away from danger.'

'We all do.'

'Or that person you mentioned,' Tino said. 'Could you?'

Yao's hand drifted to his earring, and suddenly his eyes were cold and blank as metal again.

'I will do my best to help you with Berwald. But I will not see that man again.' He shook himself out, his hair falling over the dragon again, and turned back to his cooking, fluid and impassive once more.

'Thank you,' Tino murmured. He thought Yao nodded.

He left the bar, longing as always for _home_. Not his rooms in the West, but that impossible dream he'd confided to Berwald, a life that couldn't exist for people like them in this time. A home for them, somewhere safe and quiet by the lakes, with windows in the bedroom to view the morning stars. A place that deserved to be written about in a library of gold.

He tucked that dream away again, like he had been for years. Today, he'd settle for wishing on a different star, wishing that Berwald was safe for one day more, one day more, on and on until Tino could be with him again.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Wanting to see everything of someone because you realize you see so little_**


	11. Chapter 11

The graffiti around the prison was stirring up the officers. It bolstered the rumbling dissent in the streets, a bright and living example of artists who still fought to see the Wall crumble. It gave Berwald hope for a future, even though he shouldn't.

Mathias' resistance recognized him on sight now, and some of the cockier members waved to him as they passed every day. Berwald took comfort in them, living like they were already free to the West, fighting like there wasn't a certainty one of them would be dead before the next weekend.

Today, one of them broke away from the group and came to him, bright-eyed over the hem of the scarf. He had long dark hair, old eyes for such a young boy.

'My older brother Yao contacted us,' he said, dipping his head. 'He said someone called Tino had a message for you. He's working at a bar right now, he's safe, and he's waiting for you as long as it takes.'

Berwald's throat was thick. He missed him so much. 'Thank you,' he murmured. The boy nodded.

'Thank you for...thank you for keeping us safe while we fight.'' He pulled a paintbrush out of his pocket, tugged down his scarf for a moment to flash him an unabashed smile, and then pulled it back up and dashed away to catch up. Berwald watched him until he was out of sight, and then thought of Tino and family and how both still seemed so far away, even as he wanted them more than ever. He spun a cigarette ration in his fingers that night, staring at the end, but for the first time he put them away again and resisted a different prickling urge and need for fire in his fingertips, the whisper borne from hurricane traitors and Mathias' bravery. He could jump the Wall, he could if he only planned and tried and joined the resistance, they'd help him, and then this lonely, aching loss would all be done some way or another.

He dug back into his pocket and lit the cigarette.

One day, he heard the officers shouting and slipped closer. He'd almost begun to grow resigned to the monotonous horror of this prison. Everyone could _get used to_ things, he supposed. Berlin had adjusted the concrete split through the heart, just another nuisance in everyday life. Would he adjust to the hole torn out of him where a dancer used to be, he wondered? After years, would it smooth and settle inside of him- for nature abhors a vacuum, and humans cannot abide emptiness for long before something breaks, before the emptiness must be filled by drink or sweet smoke or sealed away entirely where it could not hurt him anymore.

Would that happen to him? Berwald itched for a cigarette and tried to focus through the haze. The officers were shouting.

'This is signed _Eagle_. Do you know what that means? Do you know what that code name signifies?' He heard a rough, growling curse. 'Beilschmidt is still fighting. I thought he'd have enough sense to stay down.'

Berwald nearly dropped his gun. The man was a traitor, but it seemed he didn't fit perfectly into this world, either. He saw them shove out of the room and shout for soldiers. The prison was quiet after they left. Quiet, for a few hours, where Berwald paced the halls like a ghost, utterly aware of the idea of jumping the Wall, forgetting for a moment the death strip and the guard towers and every other impossibility, thinking only of concrete under his hands and running to Tino where he belonged. He dreamed in the hours before morning, holding onto the rough uniform as the last refuge so he wouldn't do something that recklessly stupid and brave.

In the greying morning, they dragged Beilschmidt in, limp in their arms, a bloody, oversaturated pale, a Polaroid photograph taken of a supernova exploding. Bleached out and harsh on the eyes. The blood stood out on his skin and against his prison uniform when they threw him in the cell, body lax and lolling. He was so starved and inhumanly human that Berwald paused outside the door for a moment, wondering if he was still alive or if he'd ever been. He couldn't see him breathing and couldn't decide whether he cared or not. The door was still unlocked and wide open to his cell, and standing this close even when Beilschmidt was as close to harmless as he could be still felt dangerous. Others loved that danger and adrenaline, but Berwald had only ever been built on routine and softer loves.

They sent a new prisoner into the west wing. Zwingli looked pale when he returned. Berwald went drinking in memory or irony until they were the same thing.

0o0o0o

The next day, the scattered graffiti painters seemed on edge, a collection of dark crows with flicking wings and tails, huddling about. They scattered when they saw Berwald, but calmed when he waved. The boy who'd once given him a message approached again.

'They said Beilschmidt is in there.' He raised his trembling jaw. 'Is it true?'

''T is. I saw him.'

His eyes flashed between awe and fear, hungering for more of this _legend_ who'd gained wings for all the wrong reasons, before he swallowed it back and turned to run. Berwald wondered if _anyone_ who ran in their circles could feel anything but love or hate or both towards that man.

Gilbert stalked around the prison that day, bruised and uncaring of it, grinning at the very people who had dragged him in and left him bleeding, proudly brittle and full of sharp edges. He lingered by the west wing door with a strange expression, clutching the keys in his ring. If Berwald didn't know better he would have described it as _sorrow_.

He couldn't bear to go to the resistance bar again. If he was there, surrounded by Mathias' bright crimson conviction in his own bravery, caught up in the waves of people raging for freedom, he knew he would join.

Mathias found him anyways, but just Mathias was different. He was just as intense, just as fierce and reckless, rushing through his words and stumbling to explain his lightning-flash ideas, but his power came from being able to sway others to his thrall with a touch and a word. Berwald was only one person. He could drink and think of Tino and the prison while Mathias talked at them both. It was comfortable. Normal, if something like that had ever existed in Berlin. Berwald stayed because he needed that comfort. He stayed because Mathias complained about him smoking right across the table- _keep it outside, Ber, I wanna breathe here_\- and every hour he sat at some sticky bar table with him was an hour where he had a hold against bitter smoke. He could see Mathias already knew about Gilbert, in the tenseness of his jaw and the way he fingered the neck of his bottle, imagining a different night, a different fight. They turned their backs on that for a moment and Mathias spoke of other things.

'I'm so worried about him,' Mathias said, picking at his sleeve. He looked different, unwieldy, without his dark dyed coat. 'Antonio's a romantic to his core, but he's never fell for someone _this_ bad since-'

The oversaturated pale ghost of a traitor hung between them. Mathias' eyelashes fluttered but his mouth never stopped working, slack with alcohol.

'And- and it's fucking me up, too, because I've got _Lukas_. Or I think I do. I could have him, I think, if I tried, and he'd let me. I'm already his.' He nodded at his glass and thrust it out for a refill, eyes already growing hooded with sleep. 'Always been. And we're not gonna be like that, not like Antonio and that _spy_, we're gonna be okay in the end if I can just figure out how to keep him safe-'

'I'm like th't,' Berwald found himself mumbling. Mathias finally paused to shoot him a grin, face flushed.

'You're still fighting for that dancer, aren't you?'

''F course,' Berwald said automatically, shocked into answering. Mathias clicked their drinks together. If Berwald was anyone else, Mathias would already be working his strange thrall, convincing them into his hand of fighters. But this was them, and Berwald was probably the only person in a ten mile radius from the break point of this city that Mathias didn't believe he could convince into a fight.

_Convince me_, Berwald wanted to say, plead, needing some refuge from his guilt. If Mathias offered, it wouldn't be his _fault_ for all this roiling energy and need. But Mathias was leaning back in his chair with sweat velvet in the dip of his throat and gazing at him with blue glimmering through his eyelashes, satisfied in his own power.

'You'll be happy some day, Ber. Even if it'll take you to the far side of the Wall. I think I can make happiness here.' He grinned at him. 'Fightin's a lifetime job.'

'You c'n be happy here,' Berwald repeated slowly. 'Mathias. Do y'have a family? With Lukas?'

Mathias blinked, his ruddy face flushing deeper. 'It's not a full family yet. I know he's got this kid brother who I'd love to meet, but we've barely figured _ourselves_ out.'

'Could y'do it?' Berwald persisted, his loneliness welling harsh and metallic in his teeth. 'It's- it would b' okay?'

'Yeah, I guess.' Mathias' brows furrowed with pain for a moment. 'Maybe not for me, not yet. But for you, I think you'd be good with it.'

Those words felt like a breath of oxygen in this suffocating split city. Mathias stood up and paid, still flushed with drink, but his eyes were serious and bright.

'You deserve a family, Ber.' He clapped him solidly on the shoulder, lingering, and left. Berwald believed him, this madman firebrand fighter, his friend.

0o0o0o

Berwald hated a lot of things about the prison, but the prisoners made him sick with empathy. He wished he could save them.

He didn't know why one of them drew his attention. When the shifts were changing, he tried not to look at them, too afraid he'd meet a familiar face. He kept his eyes on the ground, remembering the faces of the resistance when they were happier, convincing himself they were still safe.

But one day he looked up and saw a flash of blond hair and the hollowness of a starved cheek and some memory swam back to him, those moments in the club full of pulsing lights and strange, wonderful dancers. He remembered one of the dance troop, a blurry glimpse of someone before they'd been taken and hurt.

'_Feliks?_' he gasped.

Silence, for a long moment, from the huddled lump of grey clothes and dirty blond hair, before the boy uncurled and raised his head, eyes clouded and unfocused. Berwald felt sick.

'How do you...how do you know my name?' His voice was a wreck.

''M Berwald,' he said helplessly. He knew his keys didn't work on the cells, or he would have freed everyone in the place. 'T'no used to...I used t'be with Tino.'

'Berwald?' Feliks sounded disoriented, lost, terrified, and Berwald was close to giving up on this broken shell of what had once been a brave artist- brave until the end- but then Feliks tilted his head, green eyes fluttering. 'Tino. Is he...is he safe?'

_Yes_, Berwald wanted to shout, crow it from the rooftops. Tino was safe, and he always would be, and Berwald would happily live a thousand lives in the East in order to ensure that.

'He is.' He swallowed, intensely aware of their time slipping away. 'I m'de sure.'

'That's good. I'm happy for that.' He said the word _happy_ hesitantly, like he hadn't done it in- _in months_, Berwald realized, sick to his stomach. Tino had mentioned that Feliks had been missing before the Wall even existed.

'I have t'go,' he whispered. 'I'll be back. 'M your friend, I promise.'

Maybe, maybe Feliks' bruised mouth twitched closer to a smile. 'Then I hope your Red Army uniform is like, _accurate_ this time, Berwald.'

He almost laughed before he went. Feliks was a shattered man and so was Berwald, but they could find solace here. Day by day, not chasing and reaching for some bright and dangerous goal like the resistance, but surviving. They'd both survived long enough, surely they could find a routine in each other that would let them keep living, one day more, until better times came and Berwald could strip away the Red Army uniform and run to Tino's arms like he dreamed of.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Someone who shines even more in the dark_**


	12. Chapter 12

Feliks was sitting upright in his cell the next time Berwald found a time to return to him.

'I heard you,' he greeted. He looked easier, looser now, even though his movements were stiff with pain and bruises. 'You don't walk like you've got a regime breathing down your neck. Like, how _do_ you do that?'

Berwald was startled into answering. 'B'cause they can't hurt me anymore.'

Feliks made a tutting sound, waving a finger at him. 'There's no such thing as invincible in Berlin. Like, look at me! I thought I'd live forever, but now they have my Liet...and my sight.' His voice dropped, broken and bitter, and Berwald's blood ran cold.

'Y'r sight?' he asked urgently, peering closer at those green cats' eyes in the darkness. He could see a milky film over them. Feliks' smile wavered.

'Yeah. It's my own fault. I told them, like, that I'd live to see the Wall crumble, and…' He sighed, touching the deep shadows beneath his eyes. 'Never taunt them. They're cruel.'

''M sorry.'

Feliks shrugged. 'It doesn't hurt anymore. And I've got you for my eyes now, Ber. Can I call you Ber?'

''Ts only Berwald,' he insisted, harsher than he meant to. Mathias called him Ber, and he didn't want to think of Mathias or the resistance in this dark steel hallway with this blinded fighter for better times.

'Berwald, then,' he responded. Even wracked by pain he had an easy humour to him, a brightness that reminded him of Tino. 'Liet always used to get after me for not listening, but I listen to everything a lot more now. I remember his voice.'

'I'm sorry,' Berwald said again, still just as helpless. Feliks suddenly grinned something feral and feline.

'Why? You're not the man who blinded me. You aren't hunting people like us down and threatening to lock us up or shoot us because we don't do what they think is _right_. I need your eyes, but I also need that gun of yours. You're gonna help me burn this place to the ground.'

'Right,' Berwald said, too shocked and caught up by this boy's energy to disagree. He was rewarded by another smile.

'Do you like, know why I'm here? It's not dancing. There's more people who want to see the Wall collapse.'

'Kalmar's group,' he agreed in a hushed voice. Feliks gave him a pleased look.

'You know them? Dang, I had a whole recruitment speech planned out.'

'Keep y'r voice down,' Berwald whispered. 'I know.'

Feliks shrugged but dropped his voice. 'Come by whenever you can and I'll tell you what the guards say. Kalmar knows I'm in here. Liet knows…' He trailed off. 'I wish he didn't. I hate hurting him.'

Suddenly, Feliks sat upright, head turned towards the door.

'Go,' he hissed urgently. Berwald obeyed immediately, turning at the door only to see Feliks curl up in a ball far from the bars, arms wrapped around his head. He was shaking.

0o0o0o

'So, Tino's with you?' Feliks asked one day out of the blue, while Berwald was still scribbling down information on the latest weapons shipments. He could barely look at him sometimes, seeing the terrified, broken boy in the cell, or the vibrant bruises on his face. Feliks' spirit still seemed unbreakable, but his body certainly wasn't.

And his way of posing random questions like this _still_ caught Berwald off guard. He felt himself redden, and nodded before he caught himself.

'We were,' he agreed. 'Are. We are.'

Feliks landed a playful punch on his shoulder, and Berwald tried to ignore the weakness in the blow. He focused instead on Feliks' aim growing better. He could make something that felt closer to home than anything else, in this half-lit industrial hallway.

'Lucky him,' he said, grinning. 'Tino talked my ear off about you the first night. He loves your eyes.'

Berwald made a vague noise of agreement, trying to avoid sounding as secretly delighted as he truly was. Still, the words brought a sharp lance of pain. That was the price of safety.

The real reason he was safer than Feliks had less to do with the uniforms they wore and more with the fact that Berwald's heart was safe behind the Wall with Tino, and Feliks's _Liet_ was still under the cruel claw of the Stasi.

He set down his scraps of paper and stolen pen and Feliks tilted his head at the rustle.

'Y'r _Liet_,' he said. 'C'n you tell me about him?'

Feliks paused. 'This doesn't seem related to the resistance, Berwald.'

'You don't h've to,' Berwald immediately responded, ashamed, but Feliks shook his head.

'No. I want to talk about him. I want to..._remember_ him. It's hard to, somedays. In here.' He tucked his knees up to his chin, suddenly looking lost. 'He's a mechanic. A tank mechanic. That's where I found him. But he's not bad, he's not part of the Red Army. You'd get it, right?'

'I get it.'

'He's got green eyes. This forest green. It's my favourite colour. And he keeps his hair in a ponytail and he's beautiful. I miss him.' Feliks wiped at his eyes, mouth twitching towards a snarl of pain. 'I wish he hadn't had to watch me get caught. It was my own fault…'

'It wasn't,' Berwald immediately said, without thinking for a moment. Feliks stiffened.

'What?'

'Didn't y' know about...Gilbert?'

'I knew Gilbert,' he agreed, twisting his hands in his ragged shirt, staring sightlessly at his palms. 'I heard something happened. He's only ever loved the city.'

'He sold people out,' Berwald said quietly. 'Y' were one.'

Quiet, in the hallway that suddenly felt cold. The shadows slipped across Feliks' face, and the sudden expression of pure hatred.

'Kill him,' he whispered. His hands drifted to his sightless eyes. 'Promise me you'll see him dead.'

'I will,' Berwald promised, and left clutching the scraps of a plan and thinking of that pale bright ghost of wartime.

He found the resistance later that day and handed them the notes he'd made. He sat and watched the artists who starved for a better world, shining words singing with joy and grinning at each other, a band of carrion birds circling the regime.

'You did good,' a young man said, bright eyes and crooked smile, still growing into the length of his limbs. He had soft curling hair and for a moment Berwald remembered Tino whispering that he was kind and brave, still sick with wishing and wanting and wondering if anything here was kind or brave or either. The only good thing he had found was Feliks, but could he call that _good_ when it was a lonely guard and a boy blinded by fear and hatred, trying to escape the claws of this empire?

He nodded and the man laughed and gently punched his shoulder. He left to crow about the future and Berwald bought himself a pack of cigarettes, wondering if that young man would die in the raid against the weapons shipment, and if that was his fault. It would be, but didn't he save those who the weapons would have been used against? His head hurt.

At least, he thought, these artist boys with bright dark eyes chose this. He and Tino never did, but what was the difference now, when he had to fight anyways?

He bought a second pack.

0o0o0o

Berwald's head hurt. There had been a prisoner exchange, and whispers again and again about the new prisoner. Berwald had heard Gilbert's name being hissed through the hallways, _Beilschmidt's ours_. As much as he hated the man, he hated the Stasi even more.

Gilbert staggered through the hallways in the weeks afterwards, eyes blazed open, delirious, lips peeled back from sharp teeth. The one time Berwald met him face to face, he was unrecognized and unrecognizable, no awareness in those bloody eyes. The man looked caught in a nightmare.

Feliks didn't move when Berwald sat down one night, and he was cold with fear for the heartbeat until Feliks slowly raised his head.

'The Stasi finally found out how to break Beilschmidt,' he said with a twisted smile.

Berwald doubted such a thing as Gilbert's breaking point existed. 'How?'

'His brother.'

'He h's a brother?'

'His name is Ludwig, I heard. Some West guard. They say he traded himself in.'

'Why?'

'He loved someone,' Feliks said simply. 'Though the guards talked about it...differently.'

They sat together in the dark, both thinking of love and loss. Feliks touched Berwald's cuff when he rose to leave, silent tears on his face.

Mathias' kid, with the old eyes, came to find him after the prison, after weeks of the dragging dread. Berwald hated that he grew wary as soon as he approached, too used to every eye in the prison being a liability. The boy was still young, the flicker of awe open on his face.

'Kalmar needs you,' he said, handing him a rumpled set of papers. Berwald was so exhausted from the fear of the prison that he grabbed the papers, starving for any way to fight back against the hell that was inside the grey building.

Back at his house, he sat in shock at what Mathias was planning. The man had always been a wild dreamer, a firebrand madman, but this was beyond anything he'd ever imagined.

Mathias wanted to raid the prison.

The first thing he thought was that Feliks would be saved, and how happy he would be to know that. He chastised himself immediately. Mathias couldn't raid the prison. It was impossible. His resistance fought back, and they had harassed the regime before, but this was different. What could have possibly changed that would make something of this scale more than a death mission?

_We need you, Ber_, the letter said. He could imagine Mathias writing the words, scribbling hunched over by candlelight, believing so entirely in everything he threw himself into. He would lead the march to his death with a laugh, and now it was only a question if Berwald would take up arms and march with him.

He let himself sink into memories of Tino for a moment, his soft lavender eyes and his bright curling laugh and his bravery. He'd keep Berwald's heart safe across the bristling concrete Wall; this fight would be for him.

He found a piece of paper and the one pen that still worked and started thinking of two letters. One for Mathias, signing whatever was left of him to a nobler cause than this. One to be left behind in this lonely room, for whichever Stasi bastard would find it. Then he put on the chains of his uniform and went to the prison, to Feliks.

'The resistance's going t' raid,' he murmured, glancing down the hallway. It was dangerous to be telling a prisoner something that could be tortured out of him after, but the Stasi seemed to be satisfied with what they'd done to Feliks so far. Even more compelling was the guilt that would gnaw if he didn't tell the boy. The almost certain worry that they would fail could wait for another day.

Feliks sat up so fast he swayed, leaning towards the sound of his voice.

'I don't- you're lying,' he insisted. 'It's a lie. They can't.'

He looked like a wreck, clutching the bars. Berwald knew he was running out of time before he was expected at his post again.

''M not lying.'

Feliks sat back, breathing harsh. His eyelashes fluttered, mouth twisting. They were both lost to their own tangled feelings.

'If it is true. If they're coming back.' A sobbing noise caught in his throat. 'Find Toris, my Liet, tell him. Please. Tell him that maybe, _maybe_ I will be-' He choked off again, arms wrapped around his knees. Hope seemed to hurt him worse than anything else. 'The resistance knows where to find him. He deserves to know. Promise me, Berwald.'

'I promise,' he said. Their time was running out. 'Feliks, y'have to be strong. If th' Stasi know…' Panic wrapped claws around his throat and stole away

'They'll have to kill me first,' Feliks breathed, scarred face tilted up as if in prayer.

Berwald backed away, murmuring his prayer promise, almost stumbling over his own feet, the same deadly hope beating in his chest.

**0o0o0o **

_**:: Waiting during summer nights for someone you used to know**_


	13. Chapter 13

Berwald had never gone to the resistance eagerly before. It felt like climbing the stage to the executioner's axe. Yet it was at the dawn of this madman plan that he walked through the streets to the bar burning with impatience and his tangled emotions.

When he knocked carefully, a man opened, knife drawn, but his expression softened immediately, stepping back, dipping his head with admiration. Berwald held out his letter to Mathias, hands shaking only slightly.

'You're with us?' the man said breathlessly. Berwald swallowed back his panic and nodded. Words seemed impossible right now. His smile broadened. 'We're glad to have you.'

He could live with being under the thrall of Mathias and the resistance. What they had in this glowing, ragged bar was the closest thing to _freedom_ in the East. As impossible and distant and nigh-unreachable as the dream was, it was something worth fighting for. Seeing Tino again, seeing the Wall fall for Feliks. It was worth everything.

'I need t'find Liet,' he said, not realizing he'd used Feliks' crooning name until it was out. He didn't mean to. It felt private, intimate in a way. The man, who had settled back into easy contemplation at the counter, poring over some maps, jerked alert.

'Him?' he asked sharply. 'He's gone.'

'Feliks said-' Berwald couldn't get the words out, but the mention of the fighter who had once blazed in this bar made something change in the man's eyes.

'He left us after Beilschmidt,' he said, not unkindly. 'It's understandable, really. Seeing Feliks taken like that. It's safer- easier- to try to appease those in power to survive. I don't blame him.'

'D'you know where he is?'

'Of course.' The man rolled up some of his papers and tucked them into a slit in his coat, pulling out new maps. 'He's in the Reds' tank yards. Come back later tonight. I know someone who can guide you.'

Berwald previously had little success with disguises. It was difficult to mistake his height, and he knew all too well the futility of trying to soften his expression, but for once those might benefit him.

He wore his prison uniform, straightening the lines and creases, hoping enough borrowed bravado would get him past the guards of the tank compound. If the army wanted to take him, he would turn their own weapons against him. Feliks had wanted his gun to help burn down the prison, and this might be the spark to set it all aflame. He stared into the eyes of the man in the cracked mirror, trying to see himself through the spiderwebbing fractures. It felt no more real than the fake uniform he had worn that dreaming night at the club.

At the door to the bar, they almost pulled a gun when he knocked, but the man who'd greeted him earlier let him in. The bar was fuller, and resistance hung back, wary and watching. It was hard to trust anything dressed in his colours. Berwald still didn't trust his reflection.

'Smart,' he said, but there was instinctive fire in his eyes when he looked at the uniform. 'Turn their own weapons against them. Come on.'

Berwald followed him deeper into the bar, to a cramped back table. The man didn't say anything to the boy sitting there, legs dangling from the stool where he perched, but he placed his hand on first his shoulder, and then Berwald's.

'Good luck. If you can bring Liet back, Feliks at least will be saved.' He smiled wryly and left.

Berwald turned to the boy across from him, suddenly apprehensive. He was tempted to ask if this was an arrangement like Mathias' kid, handling messages and communication in someone's stead, but he had a sinking feeling that this was his guide. A boy to lead him to his first battle of this new war.

'You want to know where Liet is?' he asked, voice high and wavering. His hands clenched in the tablecloth, shaking slightly, eyes darting down to his uniform. Berwald suddenly despised wearing it more than ever.

'I need h'm,' he said softly. The boy pressed his lips together and nodded firmly. His hands still shook, shoulders curling when he got down from his stool, but his gaze was solid.

'I know where he is. I will lead you if you promise not to tell anyone else where he is. You won't be able to convince him back. He's done with this. All of it. He doesn't need any more people trying to convince him to lose even more. But I owed a favour, so-' He broke their gaze. 'Don't get your hopes up, okay?'

This boy _was_ a conduit for someone else. For Toris.

'I promise.'

The boy's shoulders sagged, looking both relieved and tired far beyond his years. 'Follow me, then.'

They wound through the streets towards the heart of the Stasi, which made Berwald's skin prickle. The boy's awkward, lopsided stride never faltered, even though his steps were small compared to Berwald's. His hands were curled into fists as he walked, his messy pale brown hair, perhaps once curly but now endlessly tangled, falling in his face.

'Are y'okay?' Berwald blurted. The boy glanced backwards, his thin shoulders shaking with cold.

'I'm fine,' he said, blinking with the wind. It sounded rehearsed.

Berwald searched for something else to say to him.

'How d'you know Toris?' The real name slipped out by accident. _Liet_ had seemed to be the name he'd had in the resistance.

The boy didn't answer for a moment. The wind whistled around them. He looked tiny in the street.

'You know his real name,' he said after a moment. His eyes were a surprising violet blue when he looked at Berwald, like water. They reminded him of Tino for a beat. 'Someone trusted you with it.'

'Th'y did.'

His narrow shoulders jumped, somewhere between a shiver and a shrug. Berwald worried where his coat was, or if he even had one. 'I guess I'll trust this to you, too. Toris would be mad about telling everything to a stranger,' he allowed, with the first flicker of a smile on his thin face. 'He took me in a long time ago. He still cares for me.'

The boy fell in step with him after that, even though Berwald's stride was significantly longer. Berwald could look directly down to him. His curls were full of grit.

'That's why you c'n guide me t' him?'

He shrugged again, awkward and abrupt like he'd never quite figured out the motion. 'It's what I do. He understands.'

'Why d'you...' Berwald reconsidered his questions. 'Why're y'still with Kalmar?'

'Nothing better to be in. I can't work much anymore,' he said, a hint of bitterness in his voice. He paused to pull up the threadbare cuff of his trousers, showing a twisted leg and scars. It explained his limp, at least. Berwald couldn't look too long. The scars appeared to be recent.

''M sorry.'

'Blame the Wall.' The boy carefully rolled down his cuff again. His chest was heaving. 'You walk fast.'

'Sorry,' Berwald said again. He felt useless to help. He knew he should stop talking, stop pushing at this damaged boy, but he was so starved for anyone who hurt the same way he did.

'Blame Eduard,' he whispered, hands shaking harder. 'No. I don't mean it. I hate to blame him for it. Moving West,' he explained at Berwald's look. 'I was going to visit him that night. Just in the wrong place at the right time.'

The tank compound loomed just a few blocks away. Berwald knelt down beside the boy, who was wincing, standing up. He didn't smile, exactly, when Berwald offered his arm as a brace, but that slight, watery grin surfaced again.

'Thanks.'

Berwald nodded and got back up. His heart hurt for this boy. He thought about Tino, again, and all his bravery protecting his dance troop, and his heart twisted even tighter around all those hopeless dreams of things they would never share again.

The edge of the tank compound flashed between the buildings. The boy looked slightly more relaxed surrounded by the urban sprawl half-reclaimed by nature and the elements, his lopsided pace looking natural and easy as he navigated the pitted ground where the bombs had bitten. He guided Berwald through the buildings toward a small area of the compound he hadn't noticed before.

'Eduard was with Toris and I,' he added, balancing across a spur of concrete. 'I guess you know their names now. You can know mine.'

'Y'trust me?' Berwald asked in surprise. The boy didn't look back, weaving beneath the buildings.

'I don't know. Someone does. I think I know who. I trust _them_.' He glanced back. 'My name is Raivis. Maybe- maybe you can really convince Toris to this again.'

'Maybe,' Berwald echoed.

'It's for Feliks. Isn't it.' Raivis' eyes were watery, the colour blending into rainwater. 'That's the only reason Toris would- the only reason he did any of it.' He looked struck by both terror and anticipation. 'They're going to save him.'

Berwald didn't want to give false hope. The loss of hope was worse than never having it at all. Yet with Feliks, his warnings had failed him, and now with lonely, broken Raivis, he couldn't force himself to say that Feliks was not with them yet and still might never be.

''T is.'

Raivis' face suddenly lit up with a true smile. 'I knew it. I knew you were something good. Toris will agree, I promise. For Feliks.'

He turned and ran through the street to knock at one of the house blocks just inside the compound. Berwald couldn't stop him or warn him, only watch as Raivis threw himself into the arms of a man with long, tangled brown hair, watch the joy on his face as he promised things that might be impossible. He only caught a few words, _free_ and _promise_. Words worth their weight in gold.

Liet, or Toris, Raivis' caretaker, set the boy down and turned to Berwald. There was an old, burning rage in his forest green eyes, even as his body was smeared with engine grease. His pace was mesmerizingly steady.

'Raivis says you will save Feliks,' he said. His voice broke into a strange sob on the name. 'You've seen him? He's alive?'

Berwald couldn't look away from the helpless fury in him. 'He is. I've talked t'him.'

'You'll save him. The resistance will.' Toris stepped closer, voice breaking. 'My Feliks. Is that true?'

The sight of this broken man was paralyzingly. All Berwald could do was breathe _yes_.

Toris stared at him, and then his body went slack, head rolling back, the tension and pain rushing out of him so suddenly Berwald feared he would collapse. Collapse, and never get back up.

'If this is true...' he whispered. His eyes burned. 'You wanted to recruit me? You have me. God damn him, Kalmar learned cruelty from the best. You have me again.'

'Kalmar doesn't kn'w yet.'

Toris blinked slowly. 'You came to recruit me yourself.'

'I came f'r Feliks,' Berwald whispered. 'He t'ld me he...misses y'. He loves you.'

Toris' eyes were unreadable, nothing but dark green reflections of pain running deep as water, blinding and deafening him to everything else.

'For him,' he echoed. 'Feliks is the only thing worth fighting for anymore in this city, in this whole world.'

He turned around and knelt beside Raivis, watching until the boy shut the door behind him.

Then, without a glance at Berwald, he started walking, stumbling into a crooked run, leaving him to try to catch up.

Toris threw open the door of the bar and everyone snapped to attention, breath held for a moment under his burning, shattered glare.

'I'm back,' he whispered. 'I'll save Feliks.' In his anguished voice there was the faintest note of hope, making Berwald's chest seize with cold-water terror. What right did he have to give Toris, a man so clearly pushed to breaking, the hope that things would be better? Who was he to promise lives could be saved?

He closed his eyes and thought of Tino. He'd said he could be _kind_, could be brave. Fighting the Stasi was the essence of both, and he would take up his guns and join. But as much as he knew he would do it, as much as this resistance had woven itself into him, Berwald wished that after this he never had to fight again, that there was a future for him and Tino safe and happy after the warsongs were stilled.

It was an impossible dream, but wasn't all of this? He opened his eyes again as the bar rose to its feet and roared its approval, faces blurring in the lamplight, oil paint melting and mixing into the Prussian blue and blood red of this city.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Books you read when you were younger and keep because you wish you could read them the same way_**


End file.
